


Alcor and Mizar

by Calicy



Category: Marco Polo (TV)
Genre: "Don’t ever speak to me or my 10, 000 horses ever again", AKA, F/M, Interconnected Drabbles, Origin Story, Predictions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-11 12:15:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 49,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4435121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calicy/pseuds/Calicy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was lucky to be so naturally inclined in things her father could benefit from.</p><p>Companion Fic to "Fifteen Nights"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Hold your elbows,” her attendant says. The woman’s voice is hushed, an act of respect for the sleeping prince. 

Khutulun leans further towards the window. From her place in the Queen’s quarters, she can easily see the entirety of the courtyard where a gaggle of boys are wrestling. She watches as one child pins another into the mud. Fool, Khutulun thinks, if he had leaned closer and shifted his weight, he would not have been had. 

“Khulan,” the attendant snaps, her voice low. 

The princess cannot remember the woman’s name but that is of little consequence. Her first caregiver, Negan, the woman who had cared for her as an infant had grown too old to handle her rambunctious charge some years prior. The one who had replaced her, Qara, and the one after her, Batu, had both begged Lord Kaidu to be given to the service of another one of his children. Khutulun had already heard her mother say the woman didn’t have enough patients for her daughter. 

Lady Chabi laughs from her place upon the cushions. She must have heard the name Khutulun’s attendant has bestowed upon her: ‘Donkey’.

Listening intently to the jeers flowing up from the courtyard, Khutulun bends her arms until her fingers touch her shoulders. She extends her arms in another way but to no avail. Her attendants eyes flare as Khutulun says, “I cannot touch my elbows.”

The attendant grabs her, forcing her down next to Lady Chabi on the cushions. The dress Father had bought for her, a heavy green silk thing with a vast expanse of embroidery, tangles around Khutulun’s legs and the princess lands forcefully. Her caregiver pulls at the girl’s arms until they form a loop. The woman mutters under her breath again, “Khulan.”

Straightening, the attendant bends her head subserviently before backing away. 

Lady Chabi smiles at Khutulun who has frozen in her stance. The empress leans over and plucks Khutulun up, settling the girl in her lap before motioning for the nursemaid to come forward. 

“His name is Jinghim,” Lady Chabi says, pushing Khutulun’s hair out of the girl’s eyes, “He is your cousin. Isn’t he handsome?”

The baby prince is heavy in her hands and the empress wraps her arms around Khutulun and her son to support them both. His skin is soft and wrinkled and Khutulun cannot hold her tongue on the subject. 

“He looks like a sad old man,” Khutulun says. Her attendant gasps. As if he understands, Prince Jinghim’s eyes crinkle and he begins to fuss. 

Lady Chabi chuckles, pressing on Khutulun’s arms to gently rock the prince. Jinghim’s cries fade into a gentle whimper, “Do you think so, Khutulun?”

“I thought for a moment he was Great-Grandfather Genghis Khan,” Khutulun says, smiling as the empress laughs.

“Lady Khutulun, are you tired?” her attendants asks, “I believe it is time for your afternoon rest. If we may be excused - ”

“Leave her,” Lady Chabi says.  The attendant freezes at the command before bending her head and retreating. The empress leans close to her niece and Khutulun feels a strange delight at the motion. She is struck by the feeling that she is the only person in Lady Chabi’s world, “There is nothing I value more, Khutulun than honest words. Remember that as you grow.”

Khutulun’s heart sings at this statement. Many, including her own family, had chastised her for being blunt. What they would say if they heard the empress’ words! “If it pleases the Empress.”

“It does please the empress,” Lady Chabi says, “Now tell me child. Do you think my son will ever grow hair? He is as bald as a boulder, is he not?”

“No.”

“You do not think he will ever have hair? Why not?”

“He is a lump. Lumps do not have hair.”

Lady Chabi smiles so deeply Khutulun sees a glimpse the empress’ pink gums, “Be that as it may. I will love him nonetheless,” Chabi holds Khutulun and her son close, “One day you will have children, little Khutulun. You will know my burden. I am his and he is mine.”

The attendant shudders in the corner at the idea of Khutulun bearing children.

Lady Chabi coos to her small son. Increasingly, Khutulun becomes aware of how cumbersome holding the prince is. She feels her legs quivering with the desire to run but the Empress holds her tight. 

Outside, there is a roar of approval as a dust cloud rises up past the window. Khutlun leans forward to crane her neck, her arms tipping. Her attendant nearly throws herself onto the floor to catch the Khan’s heir but Lady Chabi has already pulled Khutulun back.

“Do you want to play Khutulun?” Lady Chabi asks.

“I want to wrestle.,” Khutulun says, clarifying.

“Go,” Lady Chabi says, motioning for the nursemaid to take her son, “Tell me all about your adventures later, yes?”

“Yes, my queen,” Khutulun shouts, already halfway down the hallway, her attendant chasing vainly after her.

“Khulan! Stop!” the attendant shouts. 

Khutulun yanks off her heavy silk dress. Underneath she wears a thin brown tunic and pants which are already covered in dust. She tosses the dress to her attendant.

“Thank you,” the attendant says, breathless, “Now go and play. You look like a peasant.”

The courtyard is bustling. Two dozen boys crowd together around two duelers: one is Khutulun's younger brother Orus and the other is an older boy. The older boy is much stronger, looks like he could easily lift and toss Orus but Khutulun's brother is agile as a desert cat and twice as smart as his opponent. 

By the time, Khutulun has arrived the older boy is out of breath, a look of fury in his eyes. Orus circles his opponent, his eyes scanning the space around them, looking for anything which can be used to his advantage. Her brother already has his opponent facing the sun. To his back Orus has a wall, a defense for him to utilize while he makes his opponent weary.

Orus sees Khutulun in the crowd and nods towards her.

Thinking his opponent is distracted, the older boy charges. Orus spins just before his opponents hands can close around him. Head down and feet planted in the sand, Orus throws his shoulders into the older boy’s gut.

Orus is small and many think him weaker than he is. The older boy is surprised. He lands hard on the ground. Before he can even understand what has occurred, Orus is sitting atop the older boys chest with his opponent's arms pinned above his head. The older boy kicks but he is had. His chest being crushed under Orus’ weight and he wordlessly calls his surrender.

Orus is pulled to his feet, many hands reaching out to pat him on the shoulders and many voices rising to congratulate him. A murmur runs through the crowd. Who will go next? Some volunteers arise but none louder than Khutulun.

“I am next,” Khutulun says, stepping into the ring, “Who wishes to challenge me?”

The crowd goes silent. Orus grins at Khutulun. Her reputation has preceded her. 

“The Great Khan would be ashamed of you all,” Khutulun says. She walks around the circumference of the arena, looking intently into eyes which quickly look away. 

On the edge of the courtyard, Khutulun sees that a line of young soldiers has returned from training. One of them pulls her attention. He is small but strong and walks with a confidence born from his own ideas.

“What about you Qorin? Do you think yourself a worthy adversary?”

Qorin looks up and sees Khutulun, his mouth curling as if her very presence amuses him. The boys in the crowd look towards the son of their Khan’s advisor and see a chance at redemption. They will not fight Khutulun but they would happily see her bested by a superior foe. An agreeing chatter fills the courtyard. Qorin waves them away, leaning upon his practice swords, his movements exaggerated. The crowd begin chanting his name. Qorin’s fellow soldiers join in. 

Qorin sighs, knowing his fate is sealed. He hands his sword and helmet to one of his companions. 

Khutulun feels her mouth tighten as she watches Qorin look her over. He smirks, shaking his head as if he finds the whole situation ridiculous. Khutulun notices that he hasn’t removed the training weights he hears upon his wrists and ankles. 

“Khutulun eh?” Qorin says, stretching.

“That is correct,” Khutulun says. She knew him from the rare occasion that she came with her father to Cambulac. She finds herself grinding her teeth at the thought that he doesn’t find her worthy of remembering. 

“I hear you are like a scorpion. Small but deadly,” Qorin says, tightening the straps on his heavy armor. He glances at her before returning his focus to his chest plate. He shakes his head as if he does not believe the rumors.

“Before I am done with you,” Khutulun says, her tone uneven despite her attempt to seem ambivalent, “You will dance.”

He chuckles just before he pounces. He wraps his thick arms around her, lifting her off the ground, “Hurry now. I am tired.”

Qorin waves her back and forth like a dog playing with a piece of meat and then attempts to throw her to the ground. Just before her body strikes the sand, Khutulun wraps her legs around his waist, knocking him off balance. They both hit the ground. 

Arms entangled, they twist and roll, neither gaining advantage. He is too big and she is too nimble. Finally, he kicks her away and they retreat to opposite edges of the circle. 

Khutulun recalls the matches she had watched between her older brothers and sisters. As soon as she had been able, she had joined. They did not show her mercy. She knew how to beat a larger opponent. She need only move him into position and she would have him. 

Across the ring, Qorin removed his armor and the weights on his arms and legs. Khutulun smirks. Overly confident, she charges.

He grabs her shoulders, pulling her to the ground. In a twist of luck, she manages contort, pinning his arms under his body as she sits upon his chest. Before she can even contemplate her victory, her body flies back. Qorin had lifted his legs and wrapped them around her neck. She struggled but his knees are tight. Her vision begins to darken and she kicks furiously until her feet meet something solid. 

They separate again. Khutulun catches her breath. Qorin rubs his chin where Khutulun had kicked him, glaring at the princess.

Khutulun takes a deep breath. Emboldened by a new strategy, she begins walking slowly towards Qorin. He stands still, his eyes watching her movements. 

“No more playing,” Khutulun says.

All shout the praise of Qorin, except for Orus. Her brother's lips curl, a slight expression but a vocal one nonetheless. He knows Khutulun's tricks. They teach one another. 

Pulling on all her remaining energy, she pounces again. Moving like lightening, she slips her foot behind his ankle. He steps back as expect, narrowly avoiding her feet behind him. Before he can act, she slips her other foot behind his other ankle. He moves around her again. She moves to trip him again and then again. He shuffles, moving backwards becoming more and more unstable until he lands on his bottom, a cloud of dust rising as he falls. 

The boys in the crowd, who had only seconds before sung Qorin’s praise, raise their voices to cheer for Khutulun’s victory. They throw taunts at her opponent. The soldiers lower their heads and moves quickly to help Qorin to his feet. 

Just before he leaves, Khutulun looks to Qorin. She expects a glare, perhaps even a look of disgust and finds neither. Instead, he looks her in the eye and bows his head. Then he grin at her before following his fellow warriors inside. The sight of his smile returns to her mind long after. She spend hours contemplating it. Could it be? Had he really seen her as a worthy opponent? Had he viewed his defeat as if it were merely a consequence of fighting an equal combatant?

At that moment though, she is lost in the roar of the crowd. In spite of everything, they chant her name. They celebrate her victory as if it were their own. They marvel at her. She feels her chest rise as her heart sings. She revels in their admiration.


	2. Chapter 2

Khutulun sighs enormously. Behind her, Saruul twists and ties, unperturbed by her younger sister’s annoyance. Restless from sitting still for so long, Khutulun begins to sink in her chair. 

Saruul stops her work and pulls Khutulun up until the girl is sitting tall once more. Then she continues lacing the headpiece unto her sister’s scalp. 

After a few moments, Khutulun lifts her hands, her fingers stroking the circle of elaborate beads that are being secured to her head. “This piece is too big, Saruul. I can hardly turn my head it is so heavy.”

“It is but a string with a few beads. You will survive this hardship,” Saruul says, slapping Khutulun’s hands away, “I have worn headdress which felt like a boulder was being balanced upon my head.”

Khutulun yawns, stretching her body so that her back is bent into an extraordinary curve. Saruul clucks her tongue. 

“If you continue fidgeting like this, I will be forced to paste this headdress onto your head,” Saruul says.

Crossing her arms across her chest, Khutulun stills, already beginning to contemplate ways she can tear out the headpiece. A plan begins to form in her head: she could pretend to brush her hair out of her eyes and use her fingers to free a few strands, again and again, slowly loosening her dressage. Khutulun smiles at the thought. 

“I know that look Khutulun. You cannot fool me; I have three sons, each more treacherous than you,” Saruul says, “If you pull out all my hard work. I will have Father make you sleep with the pigs.”

Khutulun grumbles her acknowledgement, weighing the thought of her hair, liberated from the oppressive strings and beads, against the possibility of sleeping with animals. She glares, realizing her sister has defeated her, “Why am I here, Saruul? I never even asked to come.”

“Father takes care to brings each of his children to court at least once. I went when I was your age. Chabar went when he was your age. One day Orus will too. Father likes to put us on display, so that the Khan and his court can see the beautiful children of the House of Ogedei,” Saruul says. 

“Why did you not speak on this before?” Khutulun asks, “I could have made myself ugly and stayed with my attendants. They must miss me terribly.”

Saruul’s mouth twists for the briefest second before she yanks several strings into a knot, making Khutulun wince, “I am finished. I promise.”

“When will we go back to Karakorum?” Khutulun asks. She did not like Cambulac. The city was unnatural to her. It had such a dense population with people and animals living practically on top of one another. In Karakorum, there was openness. One could breathe clean fresh air and see for miles without boundaries.

Just thinking of the steppe makes her belly ache. The night before, she had dreamt of home: an endless expanse of blue sky, a warm sun on her skin, and a fast horse underneath her. Khutulun still feels the wind running through her unbound hair. No duty, no title. She could go wherever she wished. 

“Soon,” Saruul says, tucking Khutulun’s stray hair into the headpiece. She pauses, her lips pursed before she adds, “You know something? I think you will find court very agreeable.”

Khutulun hops off the bench. Incredibly, the headdress barely moves. Khutulun shakes her head violently but the piece is immobile. Saruul reaches for the dress she has chosen for Khutulun to wear. Seeing this, Khutulun skips away to look out the window. 

“Father speaks often about you. He sees glimpses of a person you could become. I have seen it too. You inspire others with your spirit. People see you very favorably,” Saruul says, “ You should be grateful he holds you in such high regard.”

“Why?” Khutulun asks. 

“Why?” Saruul says, “We see in you, someone who could be very political one day, little sister.”

“I wish to ride horses and wrestle and eat,” Khutulun huffs, “I do not want to be a court lady.”

Saruul holds the dress so that Khutulun can slip into the garment but the girl hurries away, crawling behind a large chest. Smirking, Saruul says, “I have wrangled colts twice your size and twice as wild, Khutulun.”

Saruul moves to grab her but Khutulun runs. Fast as lightning, Saruul seizes hold of her younger sister’s braid, tangling her fingers into the hair. Just before Saruul can tug, Khutulun freezes. 

“If you run, you will tear out your own hair. It will be no one’s fault but your own,” Saruul says. 

Khutulun glares but lifts her arms in surrender. Smirking, Saruul place the heavy dress over Khutulun’s head, pulling the younger girl’s arms through and fastening the garment into places.

“No one could make you a court lady Khutulun,” Saruul says, smiling at the very thought, “I think Father simply wishes to see if you have a mind for politics. I’m sure he hopes that one of his children does.”

“What do you mean?”

Saruul shrugs. She is their Father's oldest daughter and one of his favorites as well. She can speak freely, “Chabar may be our father’s heir but he is a fool. He would never be able to manage our father’s khanate. None of our brothers have the charisma or the patience or the skills our father requires.”

It is a strange thing to even contemplate. It had never crossed Khutulun’s mind that her father could chose another besides Chabar as his successor. Sons sat on their father’s thrones. That was the way things were. Yet the thought stays in her mind, reverberating like an angry insect. If Chabar was not her father’s heir, then who would Lord Kaidu wish to succeed him?

“What do you think, Khutulun? You see as I see,” Saruul says, kneeling to straighten her sister’s dress, “Who do you think is a sheep, moved by commands with little purpose in the world besides growing fat? Who do you think is like the wild horses, more inclined to move by your own purposes and desires? Who would you have inherit our father’s title?”

Khutulun listens but she knows her sister is not speaking about animals. She knew her family was part of a larger world but only as an small mouse might realize the vastness of the steppe. Her father had his place as her uncle and many others did and they were all interconnected like tiles in a mosaic. 

“I think I am hungry,” Khutulun says, scratching where the seam of dress is already rubbing against her skin.

Saruul rolls her eyes, standing. She holds out a hand for Khutulun to take. “Come. I will not have you bothering all the lords and ladies with your empty belly.”

They walk down to the kitchens where Saruul finds a plate of meat and a cup of rich mare's milk for her younger sister. Khutulun eats enthusiastically but Saruul does not, choosing instead to sit, hands resting on her palms as she studies the little girl. 

“Do this for our father,” Saruul says as she leads Khutulun to the hall where their uncle attends to matters of his empire, “Hold your head high but listen to all who speak. Find a lesson in each moment. When father asks you for you opinion, think and then respond. Serve him well and you will be rewarded.”

Saruul’s voice is somber. Picking at the beads upon her head, Khutulun nods, for little other reason than to bring some gaiety back into Saruul’s eyes. 

It is easy to agree to Saruul’s demands. It is much more difficult to act on them. Khutulun watches and listen for several minutes as the court fills, standing quietly with her father and her brother Chabar. Then her eyes begin to wander. She examines the courtiers around, her gaze traveling until it falls upon Lady Chabi at the precise moment the Empress glances at the young princess.

The Empress smiles at Khutulun, learning to speak into her husband’s ear, her eyes unwavering as she watches the girl. Suddenly the Khan himself is looking at Khutulun as well. The Khan nods and his queen motions for their niece to come closer. Khutulun obliges, head bent as she moved to bow before the Khan and his wife.

“How do you grow so tall, Khutulun?” her uncle asks.

“I drink much mare’s milk,” she replies.

“Your first time in my court, yes?” Kublai Khan says. 

“Yes,” Khutulun says.

“Come. My wife sings your praise. I wish for you to be near me.”

Khutulun crawls to sit upon the lowest step leading to her uncle’s throne, where she remains as ministers present reports to the Khan. Many eyes look upon her and she feels her skin burning but she does as Saruul had told her to and tries to listens with her head held high.

In spite of her position, her mind begins to wander again. Desperately, she hopes the Khan will not ask her a question. It is not her fault. There are dozens of foreign persons in strange dresses speaking different tongues that are much more interesting than agricultural reports. 

She is beginning to count the shadows on the walls when it begins: tributes. 

There are bolts of cloth in every color that she could possibly imagine, in many different textures that her fingers itch to touch. There are spices, the smell of which makes her eyes burn and her mouth water. There are small chittering monkeys in a cage, a bird on a leash with feathers the color of fire, and a cat from a jungle thousands of miles away which is bigger than Khutulun herself. There is porcelain with details so fine, Khutulun is certain they have been drawn with a needle. There are chests of gold, silver, and jewels so heavy four men must lift them. 

Behind all these treasure, comes a man with empty hands. He bows, laying his entire body unto the ground. As he rises again, Khutulun sees that he shivers. 

“I spoke to the chief of the Bayaut tribe, my Khan,” the man says, his eyes wet with tears, “They have refused your demands again.”

The Khan grunts, “Is that so? Once again you have failed to convince them of the folly of their way?” Khutulun’s uncle stands, moving closer to the messenger. The man bow again, his forehead pressed to the ground. The Khan speaks again, his voice low, “I value my soldiers. I had hoped you would be able to convince the Bayaut of their folly.”

The Khan nods and three guards moved swiftly to remove the messenger. Realizing his fate, the messenger becomes hysterical, “I tried, your highness. I did! Long live your, excellency! Long live the Empress! Please, your benevolence. Mercy - ”

The heavy door of the chamber closes before the court can hear the rest of the messenger’s plea.

“What do you think of this Chabar?” the Khan asks, walking toward Lord Kaidu and his son.

Chabar stands tall, shoulder broad, and replies with a confidence which shudders through the room, “The Khan should have what the Khan desires.”

“Why do you say this?” the Khan asks, “What is it you think I desire?”

Chabar opens his mouth and then quickly closes it. He glances at Lord Kaidu but his father turns, his face weary at his son’s silence. 

“You desire gold, riches,” Chabar says, his voice still explosive. 

The Khan raises a brow. He waves at the massive piles of riches he had been given as tribute. 

“Glory then,” Chabar says, “You wish for the glory of victory.”

“Your son bays like an ass, cousin Kaidu,” the Khan says, smirking as Chabar glares and turns red. 

A handful of courtiers chuckle. Lord Kaidu’s eyes furrow but he does not respond to the Khan’s statement. 

Khutulun studies her uncle and it strikes her suddenly that the Khan is not a young man. She knew that once he had been robust, a striking figure but in that moment, he is red-faced and his every movements seems labored.  

She remembers her own grandfather, his skin soft and sagging, stroking her cheek. His words ring in her ear. “When I am gone, you will remain. Promise me you will not forget me.” He had said this statement, with different words, every time he had seen Khutulun. Even then, even as a small child, she had understood.

It is silent in the court. It occurs to Khutulun, as she looks upon the docile ladies and the reserved lords, that she does not wish to be among their herd. She has no desire for the bondage of decorum. Internally, she begs for forgiveness but the words burst from her regardless.

“For your legacy,” Khutulun says.

The Khan turns to look at his niece and she fights the urge to curl under the weight of his gaze. It occurs to her that she is being presented with a rare privilege: to be heard by the Khan of Khans. This emboldens her. 

Clearing her throat, Khutulun says, “The great Genghis Khan, my lord’s grandfather, sought to unite the tribes together into one strong empire. You wish to honor his vision, do you not? You wish for all in our great land to call you Khan. That is why you demand the Bayaut bend to your will.”

The Khan seems to stare at her for hours. Khutulun worries she has embarrassed her Father just as Chabar had until the Khan scoffs, “You hear that Chabar? A child understand better than you do.”

“Wise beyond her years,” Lady Chabi says, “Did I not tell you, husband?”

Khutulun looks to see her father’s reaction. Lord Kaidu nods at her, smiling broadly. 

She does not realize the value of the expression until later. As they sat down to eat their evening meal, her father held up a hand when Chabar came to sit at his father’s side. 

“Go and seat yourself next to Saruul, Chabar,” Lord Kaidu says. 

Chabar stares dumbly at their father, for several seconds too long before he moves to sit next to their sister, in the chair Khutulun customarily occupies. Flustered that her brother had taken her seat, Khutulun crosses her arms. 

Saruul had bathed her and given her more comfortable clothes and Khutulun is aware that she is a mere child once more. Earlier, she had played with her headdress. Several beads had broken. Perhaps she is being punished -

“Khutulun, you will sit by my side,” Lord Kaidu says, interrupting his daughter’s thought, “I wish to hear your opinion on certain matters.”

Khutulun takes the place of honor next to her father, for the first of many talks. Chabar glares deeply and refuses to eat. Saruul bites her lip to hide a knowing smile but Khutulun notices.


	3. Chapter 3

Degan fists his hands, his grips so tight his knuckles turn white at the effort.  He clenches his teeth too, to prevent the quiver of his jaw from being seen by any unkind eyes which might be found in the Khan’s retinue. His eyes betray him though. As he watches his father on the battlefield, from his place of safety by Kublai Khan’s side, a glimmer of tears grow around the brim of his eyelashes.

By his side, Khutulun is not cursed with similar uncertainty. She leans forward, fascinated by the clashes between the waves of soldiers before her. Her body is stiff too but not from fear. The movements of men that she sees are not random. Like pieces of a game, there is strategy. In the midst of the chaos of battle, there is control, where there should be panic. It is difficult to articulate and yet she sees.

“Khutulun,” the Khan says. It is not the first time he has called her and yet he is not perturbed. Instead when she finally hears him and turns to look at her uncle, the Khan is smiling. He raises an eyebrow to her, nodding, “You know this tactic do you not?”

Khutulun nods. Her father had explained it to her and she can recognize it easily.

“Tell me,” Kublai Khan says, “What will happen next?”

Degan turns too, his eyes frantic as he waits for her response.

“Our men scatter. The enemy thinks we retreat. They do not see that our numbers are still strong and that we move with intent,” Khutulun says, “The enemy becomes foolish and gives chase. This is what my Lord Father wishes for.”

Kublai Khan chuckles. Degan turns to look upon the battlefield again, searching for the idea which Khutulun describes.

“And what will our men do when the enemy has been drawn out?” Kublai asks, a gleeful grin on his lips.

“They will turn suddenly, encircle the enemy, and destroy them,” Khutulun says.

They turn to watch. As Lord Kaidu and his men flee, the enemy pursue him. The gates to the walled city the Mongols make an attempt on opens and more soldiers rush out to give reinforcement. Khutulun pities them. The enemy thinks they have been given golden opportunity. They believe they can push back at the empire which threatens their ways.

Then, from the broken formation, order appears. Like puppets pulled by invisible strings, Lord Kaidu and his men fall into position. One column of soldiers splits into two, arching around the battlefield. Within minutes, the enemy is enclosed within the Mongol ranks. Lord Kublai claps his hands as Lord Kaidu’s forces crush their opponent.

“Tonight, I will hold a feast in your father’s honor,” Lord Kublai says to Khutulun, “Slaughter a hundred sheep and give him all the airag he can drink and sing his praise until the sun rises.”

Khutulun could barely control herself. She feels as though she will burst from the excitement which has been building in her for days. She had pranced around like a proud rooster for weeks prior to their voyage. None of her brothers and sisters, not even Chabar, had ever been permitted to sit by Lord Khan’s side in battle.

Biting her tongue to prevent extraneous words from leaving her mouth, Khutulun says, “It is an honor to serve our Lord Khan.”

The Khan chuckles, a happy noise that seem to arise from the very depths of his voluminous belly. He slaps her on the shoulder and embraces her tightly.

Then, her attendant, as if sensing her charge’s joy, appears from thin air and says, “Lady Khutulun. Your father instructed me to take your back to your ger when the battle was over.”

Khutulun glares. The sun is only beginning to set and she is not tried, “There is a feast. I want to attend.”

“I was instructed to take you back to you ger when the battle was over,” the attendant says. A spark of joy seems to flash across the woman’s eyes as she adds, “He believes you are too young for such celebrations.”

Khutulun looks at her uncle for support. The Khan grunts and releases his hold on his niece’s waist. “Do as your father says.”

Rooting her feet into the ground, Khutulun primes herself to rebel until she stops herself. She would do well not to throw a tantrum in front of the Khan of Khans. Instead, a plan forming in her mind, she allows herself to be led away.

Khutulun takes great care not to behave out of the norm as her attendant bathes her, braids her hair, and dresses her for bed. She squirms as the woman cleans her, fidget incessantly as her hair is readied, and fights as she is put into bedclothes. Even as she is tucked into her sleeping furs, Khutulun is defiant, talking without pause until her attendant’s eyes are heavy and she says with a gash of her teeth, “Go to bed Khulan!”

The woman flings a pail of water onto the fire and leaves, the attendant’s hands working on the knots in her back. Khutulun waits, meditating on her intentions with a focus that could surpass that of any monk’s. If she can only bid her time, she can go explore. She listens as the troops return on their horses and pots are placed upon fires to prepare food.

It is not very long before she hears what she has been waiting for. Her father moves like a soft breeze, his feet slight as he stands by the entrance of her ger. Khutulun buries her face in her furs to hid her smile, forcing her breathing into a gentle cadence. She watches, with her eyes barely open, as the outline of her father’s form moves to leave. She waits, shuddering in anticipation, for several more minutes to pass before she crawls to look out.

The night air is crisp and refreshing, a contrast to the dense and smoky air of her ger. Khutulun takes care to remain hidden in the shadows as she leans past out to look around the camp. Her father's ger, only a few yards from her own, is dark.

The feast, held in honor of the Lord’s victory, has just barely begun. Khutulun knew, however, that her father was not prone to overeating and he detested drinking. She is certain he will sleep now and not come to check on her again.

Leaning further, she listens. From the neighboring ger, where her attendant sleeps, she hears thunderous snoring. From experience, Khutulun knows the woman is a heavy sleeper.

She dresses by the light of the dying ember in her hearth before spying from the opening in her ger. With a rush of excitement, she flies out into the night.

Spirits are high as she passes among the soldiers. Her father’s name and his deeds are on the lips of many. Khutulun holds her head high.

It is thrilling, at first, to walk in the war camp. The soldiers ignore her for the most part but it is fun to pretend she is one of them, a member of the Khan’s great army. One day she will truly be a warrior. Her father teaches her the sword and battle strategy personally. He has warned her of the harshness of war too but she only understands to a point.  For now, she has only her own ideas of glory and her meager, detached experience.

She imagines being more than herself, more than an easily forgotten youngest daughter. She imagines this is her camp and her army. She imagines herself as a general who has conquered many lands and will be remembered by history, like her father, like the Khan. It is a happy dream.

The excitement begins to fade eventually. The war camp is dirty, smelly, and full of tired men. It is nowhere near as exhilarating as she had imagined it would be. She is beginning to contemplate returning to her ger when a distraction presents itself.

In the center of camp, there is a tall bonfire over which three goats roasts.  Circled around the fire, sitting at low tables, the Khan and his generals laugh boisterously. Khutulun, however, is more interested in the jugs of airags on the tables before each man.

She has never tasted the drink before. Before she can even begin to strategize, opportunity presents itself.

The Khan’s son, Byamba, sits away from his father, alone. He has grown, unsurprisingly, since she had last seen him. He is tall for his age with broad shoulders and hair that is cut in the traditional style, much like that of his father’s.

Khutulun slips out of her hiding place to sit by his side. She helps herself to the airag in Byamba’s cup, drinking deeply, smiling at the Khan’s surprised son as he watches her gulp.

“My lady,” Byamba says.

His face has changed too. His cheeks have lost their youthful chubbiness and she can see the beginnings of a broad chin, a strong jawline, and high cheekbones. The sight of his striking features fills her with a peculiar giddiness. She smirks to hid her thoughts.

"Byamba," she says in greeting, "Who gave you airag?"

"General Batbayar," Byamba says.

Khutulun pours more airag into the cup, drinking briefly from it before giving it back to Byamba. She watches him until he takes a drink, feeling a curious pleasure when she sees him squirm under her gaze.

She had seen boys fawn over her older, prettier sisters but no one had ever looked at her with such interest. Suddenly, her belly is filled with a happy, empty warmth. She widens her shoulders, straightens her back, and inhales, "You drink airag now because you are a powerful man, a warrior."

She remembers the boy he had once been, the awkward child who had seemed oblivious to his own great size. She laughs at the thought that the shy creature she has once known was now the subject of many great men’s praise.

Byamba says, "I suppose."

Her head feels light. She ponders briefly on her silliness as she laughs again. Whether her humor is born from airag or old memories, she can’t tell. Byamba’s face tightens but he does not chastise her. Khutulun settles. Then another memories surfaces and she feels her body shake again.

Khutulun recalls him fleeing the garden, squealing like a pig, because he had seen a beetle in the Empress’ flowers. 

"What is funny?" Byamba snaps.

"The boy who feared insects," Khutulun says, "is a great warrior."

Byamba’s brow sinks as he takes another sip of airag, his mouth unable to respond. His silence does little for his cause.

She begins to chuckle again, her body shuddering with the force of her mirth until she falls onto her back. She adds, "You, who would not defend himself from the taunts of other, smaller children, you are a fierce soldier."

He glares but she does not think to stop. 

"You stutter around pretty girls,” Khutulun says, “Yet, they say you will be a fine general someday. They say you will lead men into battle and take many victories."

This is too much for Byamba. He jumps and covers her mouth with his hand. This surprises Khutulun but she cannot help herself. She still chuckles at her own humor. Half-heartedly, she nips at his hand but he does not release her.

She leans closer, watching for his reaction. His chin begins to quiver and this pleases her too.

“I am not afraid of insect. I simply hate spiders. They bite and they can be poisonous.” Byamba says, “And it was not my place to be insolent, I do not expect you to understand this.”

His eyes flare when he says the latter statement. Beyond the fog of the airag, Khutulun feels sympathy for him. They are much alike in this way. Neither will ever be their father’s son and heir, no matter how much they deserve the title and privilege that comes from such status. The thought fills her with bitterness. She can only imagine he is of the same mind.

She nods. Byamba’s eyes soften when he sees this.

“You were insolent enough for the both of us,” Byamba says, his hand loosening its grip on her lips.

Khutulun rolls her eyes at this. She was fair, honest, and willful, even when it was not to her benefit. That was simply her nature. It was not such an atrocious thing.

Byamba pulls away and she rises. Khutulun says, “Do not fret on the court children. I bloodied each and every one of them when their attendants left them unwatched. They all cried for forgiveness from you.”

She does not expect he will be pleased to hear this but when she sees distress in his eyes, she is surprised.

“You only served to worsen their words for me in encounters which followed,” Byamba says.

“Perhaps, I did,” Khutulun says. She had not consider this. At the time, she had only meant to right the wrongs she had seen. Guilty, she adds. “Remember, though, you are here, by our Khan’s side as he sings your praise. And where are the court children? Home in their beds, forgotten. In the end, it appears you were the victor.”

She sips. Byamba stares the flames, the muscles of his face rigid and cold as his eyes contemplate the burning wood. He finished the airag, before giving her the cup to drink. Khutulun thinks it would be best to change the subject, “I heard many say you made our clan proud today.”

His cheeks cave slightly as he bits them to hide his smile. Khutulun holds back her own smiles when she sees his restraint. Byamba replies, “I only fulfilled the duty I have to my father.”

“Indeed,” Khutulun says, taking some of the meat from his plate, “Where is Jinghim?”

“In Cambulac. With the Empress,” Byamba replies. His chin drops and his jaw stiffens.

“You miss him?” Khutulun asks, her voice teasing. She points her lower lip at him.

“I miss my mother,” Byamba says. She notes then that his words have become slightly slurred. She contemplates pursuing his remark but thinks better of it when she sees that his eyes have become distant.

“Oh,” Khutulun says. She hands him the airag, in an act of commiseration, adding, “You made her proud today too. I am sure she will be glad to see you again.”

He watches her, as if expecting more. Slowly, he comes to say, his voice deep with a strange emotion, “She will be happy I honored my duty to the Khan as well.”

“And you? Do you take pride in honoring your duty?” Khutulun asks. She notices that he strokes his hip, thoughtfully. His touch is ginger on the flesh and she wonders if he was injured.

“I have devoted my life to serving the Khan’s will,” Byamba says, his words dense. His hand tighten on his hip and he clenches his mouth.

The air weighs heavy with the burden of Byamba’s mood.

“You did not answer my question,” Khutulun says, feeling it would be best to change the subject again. She sways, pressing her shoulder to his, her voice low, “I will forgive your insolence.”

He watches her, his eyes so intense she cannot bring herself to look away. A strange hum runs through her skin. Feeling bold, she asks, “What of the pretty ladies? You gave no defense for your shyness around pretty ladies.”

“I have no defense. I often find I become nervous around beautiful women,” Byamba says, his voice cracking as it did when they were children and one of the courtiers’ daughters smiled at him.  

“You become quiet when you are nervous, do you not?" Khutulun asks. The heat in her belly has spread and it thrums across her skin, makes her heart race and the hair on her arms stand tall.

He nods.

Khutulun smiles, pressing towards him, her heart aching at the proximity. She had overheard her older sisters many times. She is keen on finding out if their tales are true. The seconds seems to crawl by until she cannot hardly bear it any longer. Then he begins to close the distance between them.

Something crashes behind them. Khutulun is pulled from her haze as Byamba leaps to his feet like an errant frog.

Sighing, she feels herself smile again.“A great warrior.”

She takes a final drink, snickering at his expression. Another memory of the Khan’s fierce warrior son. She pushes him to the ground before turning to return to her tent.


	4. Chapter 4

Khutulun can still hear the quivering grunt of his voice, even when she is alone. 

When she blinks, she can see the scene again in the darkness of her mind. Her face is pressed into the sand and her hands are trapped in her opponent’s grip, the weight of the Chieftain's son pinning her to the ground. His free hand roams over her body as he mutters foul things in her ear. It had been this intrusive touch which she had used as motivation and opportunity. She had pulled on all her reserve and rebelled, throwing her weight until she gained the upper hand. Then, when she had bested him, she had twisted his arm under she heard the satisfying sound of bone being forced out of place.

Her skin crawls at the memory of her powerlessness. She should have broken both his arms.

Curling up into herself, she listens to the sound of her heart beating until she calms. With time came the ability to reflect. It had been many years since she had come so close to defeat. She had been arrogant, more concerned with showing her skill to her father than attending to the task which had been before her. Her inattentiveness had used against her.

Yet, it is not the attack on her pride which wounds her so. Instead she is filled with a strange sensation which is difficult to describe.

Khutulun sits up in her furs. Her hands begin to untie the cords which hold her braided hair in place. As her fingers work, she suddenly feels as if another is touching her. The Chieftain’s son, Negan, had been tall, bearded, and broad shouldered where she was thin and still growing, yet that had not stopped him from cornering her in the shadows where their fathers couldn’t see. He had reached for her, his hands filthy and sweating, stroking her hair before allowing his hand to drop down her neck and over her collarbone. 

Her shock had only lasted a moment. When she found herself, she moved swiftly, shoving her palm deep into his gut before fleeing. 

Her father had brought all of his children and all of his wives to the wedding. Her family crowded around Lord Kaidu like sheep in a herd but Khutulun moved carefully around her siblings to press herself as close to Lord Kaidu as decorum would allow. Her father and his friend, the Chief Houlun, were talking ruefully.

“Cambaluc,” Lord Kaidu said, “Our Lord Khan calls it the center of his new empire.”

“And Karakorum?” Chief Houlun asked, “What is to be done with Karakorum?”

“It falls to Lord Ariq,” Lord Kaidu said, “tossed away like it is nothing when it is the capital of Ogodei Khan.”

“Do not be so rash,” Chief Houlun said. He looked into his cup, then shrugged, “You make too much of a simple thing.”

“I cannot be ambivalent on the matter. I am a proud son of Genghis. Can Lord Kublai say the same? I do not think so,” Lord Kaidu said, “He moves to fortify his future conquests, away from the lands of his forefathers, into a foreign dynasty. A Chinese empire for his Chinese son.”

Chief Houlon hushed her father, gesturing toward Khutulun who had leaned in to listen. Eyes narrowed, her father sighed and returned his attention to his plate. Khutulun had sat back, clenching her teeth.

Who was Chief Houlon to determine what be censored from her? She was more than capable of handling issues of politics. 

And why had her father gone silent?

As if sensing something were amiss, Lord Kaidu had rested his hand on his daughter’s shoulder. Khutulun leaned closer, savoring her father’s attention until he said, raising his voice so that Chief Houlun could hear, “I hope one day to give you a wedding this splendid, Khutulun.”

Khutulun glanced at the guests of honor, Negan, and his bride, Suhe, his second wife. Negan was persistent. He sat close, watching her with a malice in his eyes that made her sick. Suhe sat far away, with the other women, ignored. She was a tiny girl, not much older than Khutulun, who had blushed when her husband had bragged about his prowess. 

When her father’s words reached his ears, Negan boasted, loudly for all the hear, “Give me your daughter, Lord Kaidu, and I will give her a ceremony more grand, more magnificent than she could ever imagine.”

Chief Houlun chuckled. He leaned towards Lord Kaidu and said, his eyes examining Khutulun, his voice musky from drinking too much airag, “What do you say, hm? My son could marry your daughter. You and I would be kin. Wouldn’t that be impressive?”

Lord Kaidu smiled. 

“Imagine, how striking our houses would be if united,” Chief Houlon said, “We would be a force of will, would we not? With one simple engagement.”

Her father had listened but when the time came for a reply, he had glanced at his daughter.

“What do you think, Khutulun?” Lord Kaidu had asked.

Khutulun looked again to the the bride Suhe. The girl wore her bridal dressage like a prisoner wore chains. Her deel was borrowed. It hung over the girl’s body, all thick, heavily embroidered silk. The ensemble was so big, it did not fit its wearer, who sat with her skirt bunched around her legs. Suhe’s head was heavy with a great wooden headdress which formed a bird of prey that seemed to move as if striking an unsuspecting quarry.

“I think not,” Khutulun said without a trace of hesitation.

The Chieftain’s good mood had immediately dissipated at this admission. He had practically spat when he said,“The union would be a worthwhile one.” Then, turnings towards Lord Kaidu, he said, “Her opinion is of little consequence. ”

“It is of enormous consequence,” Lord Kaidu said. He looks down upon Khutulun, his eyes somber, “It is her marriage. No one experiences such a bond more than a wife.”

Khutulun read her father’s expression easily. She knew she must give the chief an opportunity to save face. Yet, she cannot. She was worth more than to be chattel for political gain. She had said, knowing her words would never grace the lips of Suhe, “I would never marry a man until he has proven that he could best me in a wrestling match.”

Negan laughed, his body shaking as he roared. The only sound which rose above the noise of the chieftain's son is that of the Houlon chuckling as well. Even a few of Khutulun’s brother grinned too much at her statement. 

Yet Khutulun stood by her words. This was her way, a impulse born from the very nature of her blood. She would rather fight no matter the challenge than surrender to the will of another.

“I accept your challenge,” Negan said, leaning forward, the light forming shadows on his thick flexing muscles, “Wrestle me here and now. When I win, I will have you.”

Khutulun glanced at her father and stood, her back straight and proud. His attention was on her and her alone. She was uncertain of what she wants to demonstrate but she knew this moment is significant.

“Look at me,’ Khutulun thought. She circled her opponent. There were many eyes on her. The magnitude of the moment was not lost on her. ‘I am strong. I am capable. And I am willing.’

She was skillful but he was bigger, faster than she realized. They are on the ground quickly. She makes an attempt to maneuver in her favor but he is heavy and his grip on her is tight. 

It was luck, she realized later. An ounce more strength, a quicker reaction on his part, even the slightest uncertainty in her movement, and she would have been taken. The weight of such consequences was heavy on her chest. When it was over, she had stood dumbfounded, her opponent groaning at her feet. Khutulun could not see the reaction of those around her. She met the eyes of her father. His expression was painfully neutral. 

“She-devil,” Houlon seethed. He stood, crossing the space between himself and Khutulun with two steps, raising his hand.

Lord Kaidu placed himself between the chief and his daughter. There was a pause during which Chief Houlon fisted hand, his forearm shaking. His eyes furiously examined Khutulun and then Lord Kaidu. Finally, he remembered himself and lowered his arm. 

“Agreements are agreements,” Lord Kaidu said.

“Who would want a wild animal for a wife?” Chief Houlon snapped, “Consider my offer rescinded.”

Lord Kaidu had nodded politely at his friend’s words. Then, his hand to his chest, her father bent at his waist and bowed to her. 

Alone in her ger, into the quiet of the night, she exhales. Had she lost, she would have been eternally bound, a third wife with little status or choice. Only when it was done, only when she saw what she had gained was she aware of what she could have lost. 

Her father had taken her aside when the wedding celebrations had ended. 

“Hear me daughter,” Lord Kaidu had said, “Remember my words. Chief Houlon is my friend and my ally but I spoke too freely. What I said, regarding the prince and our Khan’s new capital, was treason. You would do well to forget it. As for myself, I will guard my words.”

She had contemplated his statement. Her father was not alone in his sentiment. In Karakorum, there were many lords and many ladies who held their tongues at the Khan’s news in Lord Kaidu’s presence. Khutulun, however, had seen and heard; therefore she knew. Her father deserved her honesty.

“You said the truth,” Khutulun said. 

There, in the light of a single torch, she saw only the shadows on his features. His chin was set, a strong mouth, and high forehead. ‘Regal,’ she had thought. She knew she would happily bend her knees if he sat on a throne and she knew she would not be alone in her submission.

Then, her words, dangerous and wild, seemed to rush from her like flood rain from storm clouds, “You have many battles ahead of you. It does not matter to me who your enemy may be. I wish to be by your side.”

He smiled, his face empty of emotion. Briefly, she thought that he did not hear her. She dared not repeat herself. Still, her heart beat intently, urging her to speak until his hand tightened on her shoulder. Her father looked to the heavens, admiring the stars. His face was relaxed and his eyes seemed to dream of things beyond what was before them. She settled, silent for his contemplation. 

“It would bring me great pain to lose you to another,” her father had said as he bade her good night.

“Not as much pain as I would feel at losing you,” she said.


	5. Chapter 5

Khutulun steps gingerly into the warm water of the hot spring. She sighs happily. The heat feels good on her aching joints. She drops below the surface to rinse off her dusty skin. As she rises, she tosses her braid over her shoulder and glances back at Byamba.

The Khan’s son stands in the deepest part of the spring, the water level with his chin, his arms wrapped tightly around his body. His back is rigid and his eyes are on a spot far off in the distance.

Khutulun sweeps her hands through the water, watching the small waves her fingers create. Eyes on her own feet, she says, unexpectedly shy, “This is pleasant.”

She winces the moment the words leave her lips. She has commented on the water nearly five times. Yet in spite of her attempts, she cannot find anything of substance to say. ‘Say something, Byamba,’ Khutulun thinks, ‘Say anything.’

Khutulun leans forward to gently stroke her arms through the water. The weightlessness of her body is calming but it is not a sufficient distraction. She waits, slightly annoyed, for Byamba to respond, watching him out of the corner of his eyes. He meets her eyes. Upon seeing this, Khutulun panics, for reasons she cannot fathom, and dives under the water.

The silence under the surface is absolute, so much so that she can forget herself. Her mind fills with the same hollow quiet which surrounds her. She enjoys the sweet nothingness until her lungs ache and she must rise up again.

She breaks through the surface near the edge of the spring. Reaching up to hold onto one of the overlying rocks, she dangled, moving with the waves of the water. Her mind and her worries return to her. Her head is filled with chaotic and heated vision. She prays to whatever higher powers may be that her companion does not see the red of her cheeks.

Was it rebellion that had inspired her thoughts? She had known since she was born that one day her father would give her to another in marriage, more than likely in a pact to benefits his own goals. She despised the idea. The very thought of being traded like a horse or a chest of gold infuriated her, despite all the tradition which stated it was an unfortunate necessity. Was this yearning simple a blind hope for a choice which she only wanted because she had been forbidden from having it?

The water splashes as Byamba moves behind her. She stares him out of the corner of her eyes. Byamba had become a striking figure. His body bore the scars and strength of many years of training and many battle. He had grown to be taller than any man or woman she had ever seen. Yet for all his power, he wore an air of calm. She knew, without a shadow of doubt, that his hands would never hurt another unless moved by another’s greater purpose.

Or perhaps she was stirred by curiosity and a little jealousy? She had arrived at an age where the boys she wrestled had begun to brag loudly. It angered her that she could not participate until she realized there was no need for envy. She need not be the prey; she could be the hunter. She could give and take, if she had the will to do so.

Khutulun’s internal debate is interrupted when Byamba says, “This is indeed pleasant.”

Relief floods her veins, icy and sweet. Khutulun grins, “I knew you would enjoy it, Byamba.”

Byamba’s face slips from its usually impassive countenance. It is subtle but she notices. A new softness spreads across his tight jaw and his mouth curls very slightly at its corners. His eyes watch her with the same, old intensity that makes her shiver.

“You have my gratitude for bringing me here,” Byamba says.

Khutulun releases her hold on the rock, lifting her feet so she can glide through the water with ease. She finds comfort in seeing him relax. Lowering her voice, she says, smiling still, “Do you think they have noticed our absence?”

Byamba drops his gaze to stares at his hands, “I am uncertain.”

He shuffles on the balls of his feet. Seeing this, Khutulun bites her cheek, more than a little enamored by his shyness.

“I do not think they will. My father is preening for the Khan and your father has enough drink and meat to distract him for the rest of the night,” Khutulun says.

The thought of her father rouses her from her haze. What would Lord Kaidu think of her? She attempt to find the will to excuse herself and leave. Nonetheless, the moment embraces her and her body is unmoved by the haphazard command. She turn to lie on the surface of the water, chuckling to herself at her attempt at propriety. It had never been her nature to worry about consequences until they arose. She considered it a weakness and a strength.

"Are you frightened of the task before you?” Byamba asks, still staring at his own hands.

Khutulun stands, her body suddenly heavy. “I wish to honor my father. Much of my life and freedom depend on his opinion of me and my skill. It is a heavy burden. You know this better than anyone.”

Byamba bends his knees, his lips tight and uncomfortable as he rinses his hair in the water.

“We are both lucky,” Khutulun says. She is unabated by his distress but not out of malice. Under the most rigid of circumstances, she had trouble holding her tongue. When she is only in the presence of someone she trusts, she is even less guarded. “We are both naturally inclined in things our fathers can approve of.”

“I was frightened,” Byamba says abruptly, “There is no shame in it. It is no simple task to lead a tumen. Many lives rest in your hands.”

“You?” Khutulun says, her face sardonic in its shocked.“You were frightened? Our Khan’s golden son?”

“Do not let Jinghim hear you say that!” Byamba says. His eyes flare as if she had misspoken in front of the Khan himself when their closest audience is several miles away back at their camp.

“Our Khan favors you,” Khutulun says. Why does he not acknowledge this? Does he not know? Or does he think so little of himself that he takes grief from her words? “You always do as he says and you do it well. He prefers you for that reason. If you had been his true born son -”

“Be silent,” Byamba says, “What you say could be taken as treason if heard by the wrong ears.

“There is no one near but us, Byamba,” Khutulun says. She waits for a response but none arise. This saddens her. He deserves better than this silent contempt and the occasional afterthought reward, “No one knows how to curry favor as you do. You deserve better for your loyalty and service.”

“I do as I was instructed to do,” Byamba says, “I understand my place. My mother taught me well.”

His words remain in her mind, cumbersome where she had once felt such ease.

Yet, she is pleased too, that he would confide in her. She had not known his mother well. In fact, she had only seen the woman twice. Once on a field, when the concubine had come to watch her son sparred with other soldiers. In another instance, many years prior, she had see his mother resting under a trees, the consort’s face contemplative. What Khutulun knew, she had heard from his fond words.

Khutulun had heard of the woman’s death from a soldier. She had wanted to comfort him but could not find any words. She wants to know, though, about this woman he had loved so easily and without restraint.

He does not continue. She understands and tries not to be upset. Weakness is a luxury neither have. Even in the presence of a trusted companion, she would not be in the habit of exposing herself to such harms.

She breaks the silence, knowing well that she speaks for herself as well as him, “You do as you must. Our Lord Khan holds you in high regard.” Then to remove herself from the tense moment, she tosses her braids over her shoulder and dives under the water again.

When she rises up again, she sees that Byamba has pulled himself from the spring and is drying his form with a cloth. She watches him for several second before forcing herself to tear her attention away to pull herself out as well.

Khutulun’s hands are wet and the rocks as much too smooth. Her attempts to grip the rocks fail and finally she holds her hand out, “Help me.”

Byamba pauses, most likely thinking her request is in jest.

He takes her hand, finally, after much deliberation. She forces herself to look him in the eyes, lest her gaze wander. Still, she notices how soft his grip is on her hand, even as he pulls her from the water.

She slips on the rock but before she can even lose her balance, he has his hand on her arm. He pulls and she nearly falls upon him before stopping herself. Without meaning to, she finds herself very close to him, so near that she can’t help but notice the softness of lips and the desire in his eyes as he looks upon her bare skin.  

In that quiet moment, Khutulun realizes she is not afraid. Her motivation was not external. What had driven her to seek his company was the curious emotion she often saw in his eyes when he looked upon her and the happy pain she felt in his presence.

Her heart thundering in her ears, she pulls her elbow from his grip, a silent test. His fingers linger, stroking the skin of her forearm as she moves to lace their hands together. Her blood thrumming with exhilaration at his touch, she asks, her voice quivering, “You want to touch me, don’t you Byamba?”

He moves away but does not release her hand. “Forgive me. That was improper.”

Khutulun nods, humored by his attempt at decorum, “Very improper. We should return.”

“Yes,” Byamba says.

They stand immobile. The heat in Khutulun’s belly spreads, running through her blood and rising up to her skin until every part of her being burns and aches. His hands shakes as he touches her neck and pulls her close.

His hold on her is light and gentle like a warm breeze. There is strength in his hands. She can feel his tense muscles under his skin as he holds her. Still, he is reserved, his touch questioning. She smiles, knowing he was still the boy who would never take something which he didn’t feel he deserved, the child who was loyal and kind because that was simply his way. They were the same in this crucial matter; no matter what time and experience they endured, their essential nature remained.

She hold their clasped hands close to her heart, pressing herself against him in silent encouragement. When he kisses her, the world around them seems to become mute and small.

His lips are shy and cautious at first. His kisses fill her head with empty thoughts and even though impatience runs heavy in her blood, she does not feel any urge to push for more. Then, she feels his arms wrap around her and he pulls her close. His skin is warm and inviting on hers and she feels herself holding him tightly.

His movements becoming more insistent. He lays her down and his hands begin to explore her form. A sigh catches in her throat at the feeling of his hands on her body. All reason has not deserted her. For a moment, she consider that is rash and more than a little foolish. Yet, this is how she desires. She wants to give herself to him. Spreading her legs, she pulls him closer and begins to remove their clothes.

Byamba touches each new bit of flesh as it is revealed to him. She kisses his face and whatever else she can access, lacing her hands into his hair. Her pleasure rises with each new stroke until she can hardly bear it. She reaches between them to touch him, willing him to take her. He moves with her, spreading her arousal before aligning himself with her.

His first thrust is unpleasant, an aching pressure, but not painful. She gasps and holds him in place, mostly to force him to slow down, to allow her to catch her breath and savor the moment. Suddenly, she is struck with emotion. She feels vulnerable, raw. Holding tightly to her paramour, she feels her eyes begin to water. Byamba rubs at her cheeks to wipe away the tears.

His affection emboldens her. She wishes to see him and so she turn until she atop him. It is not graceful, nor is it pretty. It will inspire no poems but she digs her nails into his chest and ride him, her hips crashing against his, a chaotic but effective means towards her intent.

Afterwards, as they catch their breaths, she lay close to him, holding him tightly as they both revel in their respective euphoria. She kisses him, touches the cut she inflicted upon him in her ecstasy, the deep scratch across his chest, and says his name, to ask if he is hurt. He does not respond so she repeats his moniker again and again until he abruptly sits up, throwing her to the side.

“That was very improper,” Byamba says, his eyes frantic. Khutulun moves to meet his gaze but he shifts, turning away from her.

“I have no similar regrets.” Khutulun says, truthfully, smiling shyly, “I would be lying if I said I had not brought you here with some intent.”

She reaches for his hand but he moves further away, standing, his hand gripping the back of his neck tightly.

“You are wrong,” Byamba says, practically choking himself, “It was shameful.”

He looks down upon her and a sound escapes his lips, half a grunt and half a gasp. His gaze cuts through her mind like an arrow. She sees the regret and disgust on his face. She cannot take the time to analyze his intent. Even as she yanks her clothing off the ground, she feels her throat becoming tight and her eyes burning.

“You cannot understand,” Byamba says, “You are not even a woman yet.”

Khutulun struggled to stand,  “Don’t let me force myself on you.”

She stomps away, only allowing herself to run and let her tears flow when she is safely away.


	6. Chapter 6

The blue princess falls to her knees under the weight of her chains. Khutulun feels a pang of sympathy too but she crushes it down. A delicate flowers, even a resilient one, in a war camp will only be crushed under a cool, unfeeling boot. Instead, she, as the Khan’s warrior niece, sneers. 

The Bayaut princess attempts to stand again but she is a small, wisp of a girl. The cold ugly metal, which clashes against the indigo silk of her dress, renders her nearly immobile. From her place among her brothers, cousins, and nephews, Khutulun admires the younger girl. The princess, the last of a tribe whose blood the girl now walks in, stands tall, her face a mask against the jeers of the soldiers around her. 

The princess does not cry. She does not wither. She is regal. Yet, there is a strange weakness around the edges of the girl’s mouth. It is not sadness but more as if her expression is not one of habit and her muscles are inexperienced at their task.

One of Khutulun’s cousins is the first to throw mud. Others shout with mirth as the filth covers the princess’ fine dress. Many join in. Some hurl stones. Khutulun tosses with poor aim and tries not to see the quiver in the princess’ chin.

The crowd crushes around her. Bile fills Khutulun’s mouth. Mercifully, the Khan’s knights appear and surround the girl. They lift her to her feet and drag her, shoving away the unkind hands that stand in their way. 

The knights lead the blue princess towards the Khan’s tent. Just before the tent flap closes over the entrance, Khutulun slips in, moves to stand behind Lord Kaidu and Chabar who are among the Khan’s retinue. She watches the girl quietly over the shoulders of her brother and father. 

The Bayaut princess falls in her knees, her chains clattering on the floor of the ger as she kneels. Even then, even before the man who ordered the slaughter of her people, she does not cry or fall to pieces. Instead she says, her voice measured, “Lord Khan, I submit myself to your will.”

The Khan’s eyes are heavy and he huffs, grumpy from exhaustion, “Is that your surrender?”

The girl seems to hesitate before she responds, her eyes contemplating the dirt beneath the Khan’s feet, “It is. My people were short sighted and foolish. I now realize their err of their ways. Take our lands and our wealth. They are rightfully yours.”

“And you?” the Khan asks, “What would you have me do with you?”

There is no hesitation. In one breath, the princess says, “I ask that you spare me. In return, I will give you my life and service.” 

Only then is there a glimmer of weakness. It is a subtle shiver in the girl’s jaw, the slightest slump of the girl’s shoulders. It is only a split second of doubt before she is a princess once more but Khutulun sees. 

Distantly, Khutulun understands. No man, woman, or child had been spared by the Khan. Perhaps the girl feels guilt or fear. Such would be a reasonable response to present circumstances. 

Khutulun thinks not though. It is difficult to articulate but she recognizes the shift. The girl meets the Khan’s eyes, unbreakable, and bows, back barely bent. 

This is not supplication. This is rebellion. 

The Khan grunts and waves the girl away. He tells his knights, “Take her to my Empress. Have her bathed and fed. Keep her with the other women.”

Khutulun watches the princess stand and back away, her eyes still on the Khan. Khutulun does not understand this impulse, the desire to survive when there is nothing to live for. The girl has been stripped of everything yet she still wishes for life.

She cannot help herself. Khutulun scoffs. Suddenly, she has the attention of the Khan and his men and the blue princess.

“Have you something to add?” the Khan asks.

Khutulun looks to the blue princess. It is then that she is keenly aware of the filth on her own skin and the worn armor she wears. She could just as easily be chained as this girl is, stripped of choice, a trinket to be traded for another’s gain.

Khutulun sees herself in the arrogant curve of the girl’s eyes and in the rigid strength of her posture. 

Hand on her sword, Khutulun says, her words only half truths, “I would have happily died.” 

Khutulun does not meet the blue princess’ eyes. She knows there will be dark, unfathomable emotions there and she has no desire to see them. Empathy is useless.

She catches a glimpse though. Khutulun sees the thinly veiled rage underneath the girl’s placid expression. Khutulun turns away, jaw tight, as the girl is led away.

What she does acknowledge is the press of her father’s palm on her shoulder. This is all the affirmation she requires.


	7. Chapter 7

Khutulun and Orus race up the hill. He is strong, his strides heavy and powerful but she is smart and uses her long legs to overcome him. Orus laughs, flailing his arms in a mock attempt to catch her but she is too fast. She reaches the crest of the hill several lengths ahead of him. 

Panting, they falls in their knees. Orus throws his arm across his sister’s shoulder. Gasping, her tells her, “Very good.”

“And a good attempt on your part as well,” Khutulun says, tugging his hair before wrapping her arm around his waist.

They turn and look upon the steppe. From their vantage point, they can see for miles. The grassland is like painted gold, the stocks rippling in the breeze as if some divine force draws a brush through the grass. The expanse seems endless. It appears as if there is no limit to the land before them.

Lord Kaidu comes to stand behind them, a smiling gracing his lips as he looks upon his son and daughter.

“Is this your land too, father?” Khutulun asks. She returns his smile, her heart brimming with pride. They had left Karakorum weeks ago to survey the entirety of their father’s holdings and they were still not finished. 

“It is,” Lord Kaidu says, coming to rest next to his daughter, “You look upon the Yarkand region. Tomorrow we will see the southernmost branch of the Silk Road.”

“These lands are rich with cotton,” Orus tells Khutulun.

This fact pleases Khutulun but she has come to see such a happening is hardly a rare occurrence. They had seen much of the vast part of the world which belonged to her father. Their people were blessed with plenitude: an abundance of tradition, wealth, happiness, and peace. She had seen the thousands upon thousands of men, women, and children who knelt to her father’s will, without bitterness or fear. All of this, her father had his hand in creating.

“I feared this land and its resources would have been unduly burdened by our Lord Khan’s war,” Lord Kaidu says, “It pleases me greatly to see that it stands strong and well.”

They are alone, far from prying ears and yet Khutulun still lowers her voice as she asks, “Do you fear for this land, as you fear for Karakorum?”

“I fear for all my land and its people,” Lord Kaidu says, sighing, “War is a necessary pain but like any hurt, it can only be endured for a temporary time. One must be certain to use it with discretion.”

Orus listens to his father with wide eyes. He is not often privy to their father’s honesty as Khutulun is, “Do you disagree with our Lord’s conquests?”

“It is his dynasty. He may do with it as he wishes,” their father’s says, his voice corrective, “Yet for my part, I do not wish to see the empire of our forefathers turned to dust for our Khan’s vision.”

Khutulun and Orus glance at one another. Orus asks, “What of this assault on the Song Dynasty that our Khan plans? Do you think he will require our people to sacrifice for his intentions in China?”

“Of that, I am certain,” Lord Kaidu says, “I fear he has become blind in his ambition. He will give everything that he has to take the land which elluded our grandfather.”

Khutulun grinds her teeth, “Forgive me father, but that is madness. Our people are Mongols. Why does our Lord Khan forsake us to gain the the loyalty of the Chinese?”

“He feels that his actions are in keeping with the vision of my great-grandfather,” Lord Kaidu says, his tone even, “The great Khan desired an empire without borders. Lord Kublai feels that he must conquer for the Song for this purpose.”

“He honors the legacy of our Genghis Khan,” Orus mutters. He is a simple boy, one naturally prone to obedience. He could not fathom such a large scale rebellion, nor could be imagine such deviance on his own. 

“He warps the vision of Genghis Khan for his own purposes,” Khutulun snaps. Weeks prior, she would have been more careful with her words on the matter. Yet what she had seen had changed her thoughts. Her father’s subjects bowed, not because they were conquered but because Lord Kaidu was their great provider and they were thankful for his presence. “Our great-great grandfather would never cut off his own arm in the hopes of gaining a better limb.”

“You speak of actions that are not are simple as you presume them to be, Khutulun,” Lord Kaidu replies.

“I speak not of actions,” Khutulun replies, “I speak of birthright. If you were a blacksmith or a cobbler or a merchant, you would have little say in the the directions of our world. You are not. You are a son of Genghis just as our Lord Kublai is. Your words can destroy cities and alter the fate of thousands. Your will is just as legitimate as his.”

“I know this. That is why I caution prudence. That is why I guard my words,” Lord Kaidu replies, “I would not spill blood unless I was certain it would be towards a greater cause.”

“What greater cause is there than that of our empire?” Khutulun asks, “Our people should not suffer. We must stand strong against the Khan, if that is what our people require.”

Orus inhales sharply. He does not know that this is a familiar conversation between his sister and his father. He is unaware that the thought of Lord Kaidu’s land and his people weighs heavily on Khutulun and his father’s mind. Blasphemy has been cultivated in the bitterness and pride that runs deep in both of their veins.

Thus, he sees the look which passes between Khutulun and Lord Kaidu but he does not understand it. Without speaking a word, Khutulun implores her father with a simple glance. In return, her father advises the same counsel he has always given: one must be cautious in matter of an empire.


	8. Chapter 8

She wander the Karakorum at night. Sleep often eludes her when war is near. Yet it is not the war which Lord Kulbai wages against the Song dynasty which troubles her nights. She thinks of the handful of men who had survived Prince Jinghim’s attempt on Wu Chang. She thinks of the deceased, two of which had been her brothers, who had been laid to rest. She thinks of her father and the shift she had seen in his person.

This is necessary, she tells herself. This is the nature of leadership. 

How often had she counseled her father that this was the righteous path? She had given such advice more times than she could count. Yet now, as the world begins to shift towards chaos, she finds herself wondering if her words were wise.

Civil wars were not uncommon in their history. She had heard stories, most of them cautionary tales from her father. Khutulun understood. She was not simple minded though. She knew that often such brutality was for the greater good. Still, her mind thrown into turmoil at the thought and for obvious and good reason. She wonders, in the quietest, most secret parts of her mind if her father can bring order from such disarray.

She does not realize where she is going until she finds herself walking around the perimeter of the horse corral. 

He is a creature of habit. As he had done since they were young soldiers, he is with his horse, feeding the mare a handful of oats. 

“Byamba,” Khutulun says. 

“Khutulun. Does sleep allude you too?” Byamba says. He looks at her, his eyes cold and empty, before handing her some oats to give to her own horse who had emerged from the shadows. 

Khutulun’s heart sinks at the sight of his expression. She chastises herself. Forcing a careless smile, she says, “My sister’s children have taken to sleeping in my ger. They are fond of waking in the middle of the night and pouncing on me like cats as I slumber.”

She glances at him for his reaction. He scratches his horse’s nose, his focus set on his hands as they work through the mare’s hair. Grinding her teeth, she turns, leaning against the fence of the corral, her eyes seeking his.  

“And you,” Khutulun asks as he purposefully turn away from her to reaches for a tool to clean his horse’s hooves. She clucks her tongue at his foolishness, “Why do you find yourself awake?” 

He bend to move between the planks of the corral. She notices as he holds his mare’s hoof in his hand, that the horse’s foot has already been picked clean. This only causes her anger to flourish. There is no doubting it now. He is intentionally ignoring her. Why? What has she done now? 

“Perhaps you have the gout?” Khutulun snaps, weary of his fickle moods.

Byamba laughs but the sound is harsh and sarcastic, “My father does suffer. I saw his inflamed toe myself.”

“Of course,” Khutulun says, her voice sweet and poisonous. She turns away from him, “My father would have crossed the Gobi with two broken legs if the Khan called upon him. I suppose we cannot expect the same courtesy.”

He comes up close behind her. He mutters, his tone as venomous as hers, “Do not pretend as if your father is a beacon of loyalty.”

Khutulun faces him, glaring, annoyed at the heavy pulse in her blood that his proximity brings, “What do you mean?”

Byamba inhales, forcing his shoulders to relax, “I mean only that your father should not speak so freely, particularly with regard to Jinghim. The Khan would find no humor in his words this night.”

Khutulun turn, slapping her hands against the corral which mercifully separates them, gripping the wood to calm her fury. Lord Kaidu had spoke plainly but what he had said was truth. Is Byamba blind? Does he not see how others view his father’s actions with contempt? “My father is not a traitor. You should be more worried about your own kin. Our Lord Khan should know better than to scorn his loyal family with absence.”

“The concubines in the harem bickered like you and your father do over who received the most of the Khan’s attention,” Byamba says, his jaw tight, “You should know their arguments gained them no favor either.”

“My father is Kublai Khan’s cousin and the grandson of Ogodei Khan,” Khutulun seethes, “He should not have to beg for an audience.”

Byamba opens his mouth to reply but silence himself, his eyes on something behind her. Khutulun looks over her shoulder to see a pair of guards passing. 

“Do not - ” Byamba says before silencing himself. 

“You are concerned for me?” Khutulun sneers, “How endearing.”

“You have become,” Byamba says, pausing, “occasionally careless.”

Her brow sinks into a glare again. She turns to look at him. His eyes are afire with something that is not anger. If she did not know better, she would think it is jealousy.

“How do you mean?” Khutulun asks. Her eyes fall to look at his hands, which tellingly have begun to fidget on their own accord. He moves quickly to brush his mare’s mane, “What weighs on your mind?"

"There is nothing weighing on my mind," Byamba says. He scratches his mare’s ears to the horse’s delight. Khutulun watches him, pulling at loose bits of wood on the corral as she waits, knowing well he will speak if he had thoughts he truly wishes to share. Suddenly, he blurts, “The Latin is a fool and so are you.”

Khutulun scoffs. “That is what causes your unease with me?”

"You do not understand,” Byamba says, “His position in this court is tenuous, at best. You do not know what you are doing. You have always been protected by your father's favor. You do not know how the true nature of things."

Khutulun faces him, her features stiff with fury. How dare he accuse her of being naive. He is hardly one to speak on the subject of being ignorant."Perhaps you are right. My position and my father have always granted me leniency but do not mistake me for a fool," Her voice is still a whisper but her tone makes it clear that if she could shout without drawing attention, she would. "We were not seen. It was pleasure and nothing more. Your friend is in no danger.”

Byamba pulls his mare’s brush down from its hook. He is busy combing the horse’s hair when he says, “He is not my only concern.”

“I am of no concern to you,” Khutulun snaps. 

"Of course. Forgive me. It is not my place," Byamba says. He stares off into the distance, his hands giving affection to his horse. 

Khutulun ignores him, looking at her horse’s teeth. She is surprised with herself. She would have expected more anger on her part. Yet she finds that she sad. It is too late now but does he not know that year prior, he could have had her if he wanted? What had stopped him?

She cannot help herself. Releasing her hold on her horse, she gently pushes Byamba’s hands away from his mare so that he is forced to look at her. “Is it truly not your place to speak honestly with me?” Khutulun asks. Byamba attempts to stare above her head but she stands on her toes so that he cannot distract himself, “Will you always hid behind your father’s will? Tell me, Byamba. I would never betray you. What do you wish?”

“I desire only to serve my father,” Byamba says. His eyes stares into hers but she notes the hardness of his face. He withholds. 

Khutulun rolls her eyes, “Is that all?”

“No,” he says after a moment of hesitation. Khutulun is surprised at his response but when she looks up at him, she sees from his expression that his mind is elsewhere, “I also wish for a time when I may choose my own path.”

She thinks of Karakorum, where the city and the steppe are one and she can ride away and be free from herself, her roles, and her title, whenever she wishes. Soon, she thinks, her heart aching, she may leave Karakorum and not return for a very long time. Khutulun nods in understanding.

“A wife? Children?” Khutulun says. He looks at her, eyes wide and mouth curled and she mimics his expression. Smiling, she says, “I know you well. Yes. You deserve a good wife, one who will wait for you to return from battle, one who will feed you and keep you home warm and raise your children well. Someone who you can easily give your love to. A beautiful woman who you will be pleased to have in your bed.”

“You are correct,” Byamba says, “I wish for a family of my own.”

Her throat is tight and she lets her eyes fall to the ground. When she is settled and certain of herself, she glances up at him to find his eyes on intent on her. She blushes, feels her eyes water with unwanted emotion as she turns her attention away again. 

Even after all these years, the happy pain fills her belly when she feels his gentle eyes on her. It is not light and easy as it once was. It is complex, troublesome, and more than a little sore but it still runs deep and it consumes her.

“And you?” Byamba asks, “What do you desire, Princess Khutulun?”

“Me?” Khutulun asks. The sound of her title on his lips fills her with fond memories that bring a smirk to her face, “When one is inexperienced, they must loose many stray arrows before they can find their intended target. However, perhaps one day after I have demonstrated myself as a warrior, I will allow a man to best me and raise a ger with him.”

“Do you have an intended?” Byamba asks. His eyes glint in the moonlight, knowingly.

“Yes,” Khutulun says, gazing up at the stars. She sees the Great Bear overhead and smiles, “He has yet to challenge me though.”

“Do I know him?” Byamba asks, his mild tone barely concealing a more persistent tinge.

Khutulun shrugs, watching him out of the corner of her eye, “I am not sure. One day, he will see himself as the man he is. Then, I can only hope he joins me in the ring.”

“May he come to his sense quickly,” Byamba says, watching her.

“He must,” Khutulun says, pulling herself up so that she may sit on the top of the corral, “My father grows most impatient.”

.

.

.

Her nights are long and sleepless but for a different reason. She finds herself pondering on possibilities and old happenings. The tale was no different than before but it did not feel as if she had seen the story to the end. She does not allow herself to fret endlessly. She seeks him out again only a few nights later. When he is nowhere to be found in the encampment, she knows where to look without a trace of doubt. 

“I thought I might find you here,” Khutulun says. The hot spring is quiet and warm, a pleasant contrast the cold winter night and the noisy camp. The water is clear. She finds her eyes wandering to look at the outline of his form. Biting her cheek, she forces her gaze to rise, her skin burning at her actions, “Did you tire of camp and wish for reprieve?”

“Indeed. If I had to hear one more braggart claim he had one of the Khan’s consort or smell one more unwashed body, I fear I would swallow my own blade,” Byamba says, “Would you care to join me in wonderful silence?”

She removes her boots and slips her feet into the water. Unnerved by the silence, she says, stupidly, “This is pleasant.”

Fortunately, Byamba does not appear to notice. He staring at his own feet, chewing nervously on his lip. 

“Byamba?”

“What did you say?” Byamba asks.

Khutulun lean back to rest on her elbows, moving her legs through the warm water. She contemplates her words and her intentions briefly before saying, "I was merely recalling an incident from our childhood. Perhaps you remember too. There was a vase involved?"

His eyes brighten with recognition. Lady Chabi had adored the great porcelain vase her husband’s ally had given her as a gift. Khutulun had admired the piece too with its infinite design and the story which it told. 

"You broke the vase," Khutulun says, "Correct?"

"Indeed," Byamba says, sheepishly. He lowers his voice, as if they are co-conspirators as he adds, "I was never punished for my crime."

"I know. No one saw you but I knew it was you. The ladies in the court complained you were constantly putting your hands on it," Khutulun says, "So I told them I had done it."

"What?"

"It is true," Khutulun says with a shrug. 

“Were you punished?”

“Yes. My father believed in discipline. My weary attendant was enthusiastic at the task,” Khutulun says. As if remembering, the flesh of her rump aches. Khutulun had never seen her attendant so happy.  

"Why did you do this Khutulun?" Byamba asks, moving towards her. He rests his arms on the stones at her feet and leans his chin against his hands, looking up at her. 

"Your mother was dying. This was known throughout the court," Khutulun says. She wishes to speak on her old burning desire to know his thoughts, but instead she says, "You looked like a shadow of yourself. I did not wish for you to feel lonely. I hoped you would feel you had a ally."

"You were a strange child," Byamba says. Khutulun hears his cold tone and glares but he continues, undeterred, "You wished for me to think you a friend and yet you never told me of your role in this incident?"

"I wished to be close to you," Khutulun says, her anger freeing her tongue, "Yet I did not want to force myself upon you. You seemed to dislike my company."

Byamba sighs, looks down at his feet again, "I know to what you refer. My mother was guarded in her actions and I know I took after her."

She nods, accepting his apology. She knows well the need to cultivate a certain image. It had not been easy for her at times and she knows he likely fared no differently. 

Khutulun sees Byamba smile and cocks her head, “What makes you laugh?”

Byamba shakes his head, “I apologize if I have ever made it seem as if I did not desire your company. Nothing could be further from the truth.”

Khutulun pauses, inhaling to calm herself. Now she knows she must be forthright, “You may always have my company, Byamba.”

Her words carry much more meaning than she intends and they both hear the underlying sentiment. Byamba asks, “Have I said something to displease you?”

“Do not mind me. I am a fool,” Khutulun says. She does not know what response she wanted from him, having given him such vague words but sadness pools in her stomach. 

“A fool?” Byamba asks, raising his head to look up at her. 

"Yes,” Khutulun says, closing her eyes, in the vain hope of calming herself, “I hope for things that cannot happen no matter how much I wish for it."

He stands tall, leaning closer towards her. She focuses her attention on a benign cliff nearby, barely able to resist the urge to run away, “Years ago, I swore to my mother I would only give myself to one woman - ”

“Very good,” Khutulun says. This is what she truly needs, even if she does not wish for it. He makes his intentions clear. She glances at him and then her eyes wander to the rocks again, “I hope you find her.”

Byamba says, “I had hoped that I already had. She need only accept my challenge and I would be hers until the end of my days.”

Khutulun’s skin becomes cold as his words settle into her mind. Her words daring, she says, “She would not be easy to deal with. Many have told her so. She would be stubborn, she would never be settled or domestic, and your children would not doubt be imbued with all her worst traits.”

Byamba laughs, “I would have it no other way.” 

"She would be a pain," Khutulun says, her body tense as he comes closer to her, "Constantly at odds with you, stuck in her ways. You would easily grow frustrated with her."

"I accept her challenge. She need only show me she accept mine," Byamba says, reaching out his hand to touch her. 

Panic icy in her veins, she jumps to her feet. She seizes her boots from where she left them, glancing down at him. 

“This woman of whom you speak. When she appears, I hope you will not be indecisive,” Khutulun says. Her body is slow and resistant but her mind is set. 

“Khutulun,” Byamba says, pulling himself from the spring. 

She waits and makes sure to maintain the distance between them. She looks him directly in the eyes, willing herself to look ambivalent. 

“You are an able warrior,” Byamba says. “Accept my challenge. Battle me.”

He looks so vulnerable, naked and confessing his feelings to her. She fights the impulse but her old fears are beginning to resurface. Her mind wander to the night she had given herself so willingly to him and he had rejected her. The occasion has haunted her for many years until she had forced herself to look forward. Spitefully, she leaves. 

.

.

.

The dream fades and she chases it forlorn. 

It is a beautiful illusion. She is riding alone in the grasslands, her horse thundering across the plain beneath her. The sky is dark red above her as the sun sets in the east. The wind brush across her skin, carrying the scent of earth and crisp air. Her body aches and her hair is tangled but she cannot bring herself to care. Her lungs are open, the steppe is waiting, and she is free. 

Then, without warning, her legs begin to weigh heavily. The sensations around her grow dull. Her horse still gallops but she does not move. Around her, the steppe begins to fade away into blackness.

She awakens to a racing heart and blankets tangled around her legs.   

The ger around her is dim, the only light coming from the hole in the roof which allows the moon to shine in. Khutulun examines her surrounding, still confused by the sudden shift from her dream to wakefulness. She begins to recall slowly. She is Karakorum and her father is still away. Bitterness seeps back into her mind. 

The shadows and silence in her tent quickly grow overbearing so she steps out into the cold night. The capital is asleep around her yet she still hopes to find companionship. 

Several yards away, she sees the answer to her wish. A single torch flickers as a lone figure paces back and forth in front of another ger. It is Saruul, awake to care for her newborn son. 

Her older sister looks up as Khutulun approaches. Saruul motions for silence and then gestures for Khutulun to come closer. Khutulun can see into her sister’s ger, where her three older nephews sleep tangled in furs and steps lightly. 

Saruul’s new son, Arslan is a handsome child. Like many in their house, the infant has thin limbs, sharp, angular features, and a long body. Kutulun admires the baby, holding out her arms to take him from Saruul when he has finished feeding. He is cheerful child and smiles up at his aunt with smooth pink gums as she holds him. 

“What troubles your sleep little one,” Saruul asks, her voice a whisper. 

Khutulun shrugs, giving her finger to Arslan who immediately tugs the digit towards his waiting mouth, “Boredom.”

Saruul smirks. She adjusts her robe and leans back against the frame of her ger, “I think not.”

Khutulun ignores her sister. It is very much Saruul’s habit to make a searching statement based only on the barest inkling of a guess.

“You cannot lie to me Khutulun. What is the truth?”

Arslan gnaws on Khutulun’s finger like a pup. Beneath his soft gums, she can feel the beginning of teeth. Soon he will grow tall and beg her to teach him the sword as his brothers do. The thought fills her with an aching emptiness. 

“It should not be so but I am tired,” Khutulun whispers. It was the truth. She was young and yet her joints ached and her mind grew weary at the thought of another day. 

“Then rest,” Saruul says simply. 

“I cannot,” Khutulun says. She yearns for an endless steppe and the power to live as she wished and yet she was trapped by forces she could never hope to overcome. 

Saruul watch her younger sister, her eyes so calm, Khutulun is certain the older woman does not understand until she says, “You have more power than you know. You may withdraw from this game you play whenever you wish.”

“You think so?” Khutulun asks, “What of our father and our family?”

"What of them, little one? Do you not know your status in our father’s eyes? Do you not know the power his love for you brings? It does not matter if you are his soldier or not. You can do no wrong in his eyes,” Saruul says, “But that is not the problem you are having.”

“Then tell me, Saruul, with your infinite wisdom,” Khutulun says, “What is my true problem?”

“You could step down from your place at our father’s side,” Saruul says, “You wouldn’t. You have the same burning desire our forefathers had. You simply must have everything and when you have that, you still seek more. It would never suit you to be an observer of history. You must have power, even if you don’t like the consequences.”

“And?” Khutulun asks. She knows this side of her sister. There is no point talking because she will not be heard. Saruul thinks she has all the answers.

“You are facing an unintended consequence,” Saruul says, dropping her chin to give Khutulun a knowing look, “You are not the only one who sees all. Tell me of that matter.”

“I had thought that he would not have me and I had contented myself with that. He had made his intentions clear. He serves his father. Yet recent events have made his resolve seem less steadfast,” Khutulun says, “I have found as of late that he occupies many of my thoughts.”

"Then you should have him," Saruul says, “Our father gave you the privilege to choose your own groom. Many, including myself, would envy such an ability.”

“You? You would envy me?” Khutulun says, “Your husband is a kind man. You have beautiful children together.”

“Is that what you wish for, Khutulun?” Saruul says, “A family?”

“I do not know,” Khutulun says, “I lived for so long, doing as our father asked and wanting what our father wanted. I have had my pleasure but I never gave thought to what was ahead of me. I never had my own vision for my future.”

"Take stock of yourself, Khutulun. You have the freedom to do as your pleased. Put it to good use so that you are always happy."

“I know myself and I know our world,” Khutulun says. In her arms Arslan has fallen asleep, free from the worry of adulthood. Khutulun envies the babe, “I fear very soon, we will stand in opposition of one another. What would I do then?”

“You will do as you have always done. You will do what serves you best,” Saruul says, 

Khutulun smirks, “It does not serve me at all to pursue him. I can see my fate already. Constantly chasing our many children, struggling to keep a ger orderly. All the while wondering if our peace will last.”

“Once again you mistake your worthy,” Saruul says, “Marriage and children would not render you so complacent. If you wish for war, you could have it and if you wish for peace, you could have that too.”

She stands, reaching to take her sleeping babe from Khutulun. Saruul settle Arslan in her arms, her eyes examining her son. As she passes Khutulun on her way into her ger, Saruul stops and kissing her younger sister on the cheek, “Chase your bliss, little donkey. You deserve nothing less.”

.

.

.

They grow close again on the warpath. He is not a lord nor is he a scholar. He is a soldier, the same as she. She finds that they understand one another. She is more than a little grateful for his companionship. 

Yet the words he spoke hang over her mind like a fog. She hears them when she is alone in her tent, when she talks with her father, when she is eating with her soldiers. They stir strong emotions in her. 

He does not press her and for that she is eternally grateful. He allows her to contemplate without trying to persuade her or coerce a response from her. She remains torn until, with little cause, she finds she is no longer uncertain.

It is nearly impossible for her to say what inspires her to let him best. 

She thinks, perhaps, it is the words of her father, who had counseled her to move herself closer to the Khan. She knows what Lord Kaidu’s intentions are. He wants her near the man who may well become her father’s enemy. Byamba, however, is not their enemy, nor is there treachery or malcontent in his heart. 

It could be, that in the wake of the devastation of war, she becomes overemotional. In the face of death and tragedy, many seem to lose their heads. Such things could warp the mind if one allowed them to.

Yet, the softer side of her, the one she rarely nurtures, thinks that what had pushes her to accept his challenge was the same as it had always been. She had seen the same curious emotion in his eyes when he looked upon her that had always been there. She had felt the familiar happy pain in his presence.

“I would never separate you from your blade,” he tells her, “You need not sacrifice one for the other.”

She does press him on this statement. She knows that he understands. They have their duties and their loyalties, their points which might come to clash, and perhaps they will have more troubles than she or he could ever imagine. Yet he is giving himself to her and he willing to do battle.

She does not think beyond that. It had never been her nature to worry about consequences until they arose. He covers the hand with which she holds her blade and leans in to accept the challenge she presents.


	9. Chapter 9

The sound of the airag splashing in her cup seems to echo like a sound in a canyon. Khutulun sips the fermented milk. The taste is slightly bitter. She realizes now that she might have cooked it for too long. Swirling the milk in her cup, she asks her father, “Do you favor the airag I prepared father?”

Lord Kaidu’s mouth curls, “You did well, daughter.”

Khutulun glances at Byamba. She sits at his feet, her back against his shins. By contrast, he sits erect on a stool, his back uncomfortably straight in deference to her father’s presence. Byamba watches her out of the corner of his eye, making a show of wincing in an exaggerated manner as he takes a sip of his own drink.

"Appreciate this airag, Byamba," Lord Kaidu says, "It is a work of art when compared to her weaving."

“Father! Do not dissuade him from marrying me!” Khutulun says, glaring at Lord Kaidu. In spite of her display, she grins, slapping at Byamba when he chuckles at her father’s comment.

"At least her skills in the ring are good," Byamba says. He tugs one of Khutulun’s braids playfully as he adds, “Our children will never be domestic but they will be formidable foes.”

Lord Kaidu’s smirk fades into a fond smile, “I will be a proud grandfather.”

Byamba’s hand stills. He loosens his grip but doesn’t not release the braid of Khutulun’s hair that he holds in his hand. Instead, he allows it to slip from his grasp until he can gently stroke the free, unbound lock at the base of her braid.

Lord Kaidu sees this gesture. There is something in her father’s face, a silent conflict, and it inspires Khutulun to blurt, “I wish for nothing more father. We will raise them well. Our sons and daughters will be a tribute to everything you have ever taught me.”

“I trust they will be, Khutulun. You have always made me proud,” Lord Kaidu says. His tone is easy but his eyes are still clouded with guilt, uncertainty, and anger.

Behind her, Byamba’s flicks her hair through his fingers. Khutulun tilts her head to look into his intended’s eyes. His face is calm and happy and her heart is pained at the sight.

“It will not be all my doing, of course,” Khutulun says. She does not want to sound desperate but she can hear the tremor of hopelessness in her voice. A harsh voice deep within her tells her that this is too much. She cannot have what she wishes for without sacrifice. Yet she sees her father’s eyes shift to Byamba and she is filled with dizzying hope.

“You will be a good father, Byamba,” Lord Kaidu says. He smiles but there is more to the expression, more than Khutulun cares to examine.

Byamba smiles, his face bright. He is unaware of Khutulun and Lord Kaidu’s silent conversation. He releases Khutulun’s hair and his hand rests on her shoulder, his thumb gently stroking the back of her neck. Byamba says, his grin still in his voice,“I hope to be.”

Lord Kaidu’s eyes turn to focus on Khutulun again. When he speaks, she knows his words are more for her benefit than his own, “You love the steppe, do you not? Byamba?”

“Of course. Any man who doesn’t is a lost soul indeed,” Byamba says. He traces the length of Khutulun’s neck with two fingers as he adds, “It is exquisite, beyond anything which meager words could hope to describe.”

With bated breath, Khutulun waits. Finally, her father nods, a slight gesture which mean nothing to Byamba. “Do you worship the eternal blue?”

“My mother raised me with such beliefs,” Byamba says, “I may have lapsed in such practices but I hold such ideas close to my heart.”

“What of Karakorum? What sentiment does the city inspire in your heart?” Lord Kaidu asks, his tone more urgent. Even Byamba seems to notice. His hand moves to grip Khutulun’s shoulder as he responds

“Karakorum is the city of our Lord Ogodei. It was the center of our dynasty. I respect it as such,” Byamba says.

“And the Mongols?” Lord Kaidu asks.

Byamba glances at Khutulun. She has been silent for the duration of the conversation. The question is vague, Khutulun thinks. She prays, anxiousness humming loudly in her ears, that he responds correctly. Any misplaced word, any false tone, any indication, no matter how small of difference of ideas, and Lord Kaidu will discard Byamba. He cannot afford such dissent.

“I am Mongol,” Byamba says without a thought.

“You are a true son of Genghis,” Lord Kaidu says. This is a statement and a question. His scrutiny is on Byamba alone. The Khan’s son does not seem to understand the worth of such attention.

This time, Byamba is thoughtful for a moment before he responds, “Yes.”

Lord Kaidu straightens. He nods at Khutulun. Something in his eyes has shifted and the weight of this change weighs on Khutulun’s shoulders like a mantle, “It will please me very much to have you as my son, Byamba. There will always be a place for you in Karakorum.”

Her father stands, holding out his arms. Byamba goes into Lord Kaidu’s embrace, his posture relaxed and open.

Over Byamba’s shoulder, however, Kaidu looks to Khutulun. She knows his thoughts as if they are her own. In truth, they have been her own so many times. A new era is emerging, one wherein no one cannot belong to both Kublai Khan and Lord Kaidu.


	10. Chapter 10

He loves her, that much she knows. 

 

Still, there is doubt. Many had pursued her. Most she knew gave her false affection. Yet some, some she had been so certain of until they had disappointed her. 

 

Byamba is like no other man she has ever known though. She can see this in the way he looks and speaks to her. He views her as an equal, someone worthy of respect and deference. When he holds her, she feels like something to cherish rather than covet.

 

Most importantly, he will come to see that this was the righteous path. She is certain of it. He has no choice. 

 

In the days before their marriage, she is plagued by the same thought. When she is placed on the scales of his heart, against his father and his old duties, who is of the most substance? Does his love for her run deep enough to displace lesser instinct? Will he truly understand or has she committed a sin and deprive him of undisturbed choice?

 

There is no similar doubt in Khutulun’s mind. Byamba has a high standing in her father’s eyes. In Karakorum, he is more than he could ever hope to be in Cambulac. He can have everything he ever wished for. She will see to it.

 

Loyalty, however, is in his very nature. She cannot deny that. 

 

She has never loved like she has loved him. She has never given herself like she has given herself to him. She hopes that he knows this but she does not have the courage to ask. 

 

.

.

.

 

After their marriage has been announced, her father tells her family to make Byamba feel welcomed. Her male relatives, led by her brother Orus, take this to mean they should tell him unsavory jokes and fill his belly with enough airag to fall a horse. 

 

Thankfully, Byamba does not seem to mind. As he has always done, he takes what is given to him and even gives back. He meets their words with his own. He joins them in drunken rambunctiousness. They call him brother and he acts the part. 

 

Khutulun is not so lucky. Where Byamba’s preparation involves seemingly endless intoxication and boisterousness, hers involves pain for the purpose of beauty. 

 

Her sisters, all four of them, wake her before dawn on the day of the ceremonies. Crickets still chirp outside in the darkness. 

 

Panang, the second oldest, clucks her tongue as she runs her fingers through Khutulun’s knotted hair. Yanking a brush angrily through the tangles, Panang telling Khutulun, “I told you to comb this last night.”

 

“I did,” Khutulun says. It is the truth. She is not to be blamed. The guilty party is her late night visitors: Byamba and his lustful hands. 

 

The fourth oldest, Maidar smirks as if hearing Khutulun’s thoughts.  Then, Maidar tilts Khutulun’s face towards her and rubs a smelly black oil in the younger woman’s hair, the smell of which makes Khutulun’s eyes water. 

 

“Stop it,” Saruul, the oldest, says. She slaps away Khutulun’s hands as her youngest sister tries to push Maidar away before adding, “You refuse to wear the deel we choose or the headpiece we selected. We allowed such but there is nothing more you can negotiate out of. Sit still.”

 

Beretude, the middle sister, takes Khutulun’s wrists in her hands with a squeeze. It is not an affection gesture. Beretude’s grip is uncompromising as she says with a smile, “You will be so lovely when we are through.”

 

.

.

.

 

When they have a moment alone, after the ceremony but before their celebratory feast, Byamba looks her over, bitting his lip so hard, his mouth turns white.

 

“Be silent,” Khutulun seethes, “I am hungry. I am tired. I am in pain. Remember, anything you say will fall upon murderous ears.”

 

Byamba chuckles, allowing his lip to slip away from his crushing teeth. He examines his clothes, his fine silk deel, his thick overcoat, and his ornate, golden belt, his face contemplative before he says, “I meant only to tell you that I am happy. We are husband and wife. I hoped for this day but I never thought I would see it.”

 

She glances out of the corner of her eye at him and sees his affectionate gaze. In spite of her horrible mood and aching body, she manages a half-smile and nods, “I am happy too.”

 

Then he presses his luck by adding, “Also, the sight of you in a dress! Incomparable, really. But what did they put in your hair? It smells so foul I thought I might faint when you first sat near me. Is it pig’s - ”

 

Khutulun takes a fistful of mud shoves it into his face, specks of dirt splattering on his white clothing. Byamba chuckles, grabbing the sensitive flesh of her flank he says, “No, Khutulun, no! No man will ever have you again if you kill your first husband on your wedding day!”

 

.

.

.

 

Their banquet is a happy occasion. They are given a feast with food and drink from all corners of Lord Kaidu’s lands and more gifts than Khutulun can even count. Their guests honor them with their joy and rambunctiousness, save for one.

 

“Are you happy, father?” Khutulun asks as she comes to sit with him. She presses a cup of sweet wine, his favored drink, into his hand. 

 

“Of course,” Lord Kaidu says. He takes her offering with a weak smile but does not sip. Instead, he places the cup down on the table before him, sighing. His face is hard and emotionless.

 

Khutulun follows his gaze across the fire to where her groom sits amongst her brothers, cousins, and uncles. Orus, her younger brother, says something to Byamba. Her family laughs and slap her husband on the shoulders. Byamba grins, slapping back at their hands. 

 

“Remember this day, dear one,” Lord Kaidu says, standing. His expression makes her bones aches, as if his melancholy is her own. He reaches down to touch her shoulder, his eyes wandering over her styled hair and golden robe. In spite of himself, he smiles warmly, “You have never looked more beautiful.”

 

She hated her clothing and decoration but for him, she manages a smile in return.

 

Their celebration has barely begun but then, without excusing himself, her father moves in the direction of his ger.

 

Panicked, Khutulun moves to follow him, her eyes so intent on her purpose that she is easily captured. Hands take hold of her, gripping tightly, and she is pulled until she is face to face with her four sisters again. 

 

Saruul, clothed in dark purple, sits primly in the middle. Next to her, Beretude, wearing a pretty emerald green deel, leans against their oldest sister, on Saruul’s left. Panang, with hands that are heavy with gaudy jewelry, is to the right, in extravagant gold dressage. Maidar, in simple blue, lounges on the end.

 

"Khulan. Why have you been ignoring us?" Maidar says, grinning. Khutulun winces. Of all her siblings, Maidar had taken the most pleasure in torturing her. Khutulun almost wanted to check her cup to see if it had been rubbed with chili powder or see if sand had been sprinkled in her food.

 

"No more hiding. You sit with us now," Panang says. Khutulun searches desperately for help. Her father is gone and Byamba is trapped with the men still. He sees his bride’s distress but her two cousins hold him tightly and he can only shrug before Orus plies open his mouth and forces Byamba to drink an entire jug of airag.

 

"What were you talking about?" Khutulun asks. Like any good general, she knows when she is defeated.

 

Still, she does not appreciate that even Saruul’s eyes gleam maliciously.

 

"You, our Khutulun," Beretude says, leaning forward. She reaches to stroke Khutulun’s cheek, pulling away with a giggle before Khutulun can smack at her offending hand. "Many doubted me but I always believed that you would fall in love. Now here you are, someone's bride. I knew you could not resist the warmth of a lover's arms."

 

"But you do not seem happy. Tell us why you are so pale and nervous?" Maidar asks, as if she and the others had not forced Khutulun into their company. "Tell your older sisters what troubles you and we will chase away your fears."

 

Khutulun glances at Saruul, who fights a smile. Two days prior, her oldest sister had torn her discovered her concerns after much pestering. Without proper contemplation, Khutulun says, “I have been thinking much about what the future holds for my husband and I."

 

The four women are silent until Maidar claps, laughter in her voice as she says, "I was right!"

 

Simultaneously, Beretude, Saruul, and Maidar turns to Panang, who with pursued lips pulls a heavy bag of coins from her pocket with a sniff, "You are a child in so many ways. I thought you would be an inexperienced youth in this regard too."

 

Khutulun opens and closes her mouth. Finally she says, with an even tone, “To what are you referring?”

 

"Do not look so shocked, Khutulun. We’ve all see how you sleep and refuse to eat. We all experienced the same fatigue and the same disdain for roasted meat," Beretude says. She looks thoughtfully at Saruul, "Yet you seemed the most certain.”

 

"Of course. She told me," Saruul says.

 

"That's cheating," Panang yelps. 

 

"We had no terms in our agreement," Saruul says. Panang reaches for the purse but Saruul nudges it away and slaps at Panang’s hand.

 

Beretude leans over, rests her hand on her younger sister’s thigh, and kisses Khutulun on the cheek, “You have our congratulations.”

 

There is nothing to hide but Khutulun takes care to cover her abdomen with her arm, nonetheless. They are idiots, trying to goad her into making foolish statements. She has not bleed this month but that means nothing. She has never been a voracious eater and her heavy thoughts would make any soul tired. It is not true. There is too much work to be done. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Nothing is certain.”

 

Saruul rolls her eyes at her youngest sister’s movements. The others ignore it altogether.

 

“I hope it is a girl,” Panang says, “A pretty little thing we can dress in silk deels.”

 

“I think it is a boy. Look and see how pale and weary Khutulun is. No one drains a mother of her youth quite like a son,” Maidar says, “Shall we have another bet?”

 

“No,” Panang snaps.

 

“I hope it is a child who is just as you were,” Beretude says. She strokes Khutulun’s cheek again, “I can see it now. Another little she-devil.”

 

In spite of herself, the thought makes Khutulun’s bones weary. It would be nothing less than she deserved really.

 

“Do not look so afraid, Khutulun,” Saruul says, taking her hand, “I wrangled you. I will help you now too.”

 

“Yes,” Beretude says, glancing toward Byamba, “We will be by your side, no matter what the future brings. You are ours and we love you.”

 

“What do you mean?” Khutulun says, seeing the glance. Her sister’s prediction makes her pulse pound in her ears like a war drum. She stands, saying again, her voice breaking, “What do you mean, Beretude?”

 

“Khutulun,” Saruul says, grabbing her hand. Reluctantly, Khutulun allows herself to be pulled back, “She means nothing. Only that even if you have a thousand children, you will still be our little sister.”

 

Saruul looks sharply at Beretude who promptly adds, “Yes. That is what I meant.”

 

“Good,” Saruul says, “Now, fair warning, Aunt Alagh believes the greatest power a woman can have is born from her husband’s greatest pleasure. So, she will likely tell you how to mount a man. There will be demonstrations.”

 

“But do not fear,” Maidar says, “We are here to hold her back, little Khulan.”

 

.

.

.

 

“Look,” Khutulun says. She points through the hole in the roof of their ger at the glimmering stars in the sky above them

 

Byamba grumbles, half asleep. He stirs, stroking the leg she rests against him. Yawning, he turns, kisses her bare shoulder, and asks, “What is it?”

 

“The night is clear. You can see the horse and the rider in the sky,” Khutulun says. Released from the restraints of her clothes, she feels free again. Her mind is light and easy from their passion. She reaches to run her hands through his hair until Byamba opens his eyes to squint into the sky.

 

“Where?”

 

“There,” Khutulun says, taking his hand to trace the outline of the Great Bear, stopping when she sees the double stars, the horse and the rider, Alcor and Mizar. She turns to ask Byamba, “You know the story, yes?”

 

“What story?” Byamba asks. His brow sinks into a glare, “There is no story. They are merely stars.”

 

“There is! My grandmother told me herself,” Khutulun says. Before Byamba can protest further, she tells him, “Alcor was a small girl with broken legs. She want to run but she couldn’t. Mizar was an old war horse, too wild to be taken into battle, too useless to be taken to the field. Alcor’s father wished to kill the beast. One day, however, little Alcor told Mizar, ‘Come. I will ride you and I will be able to run. I will control you so you know what to.’ So they rode, so fast and for so long, they disappeared into the horizon, only to be seen when the Great Bear rises.”

 

Byamba listens. When she is finished, his face crinkles, “You lie.”

 

Khutulun gives him a look of mock despair, “My great-great-great grandmother saw herself. She passed the story to her daughters and granddaughters. Do you call them liars?”

 

“No. I only call you a liar,” Byamba says. He grins at her and the expression makes her heart sing. She thinks of him, one day, perhaps now or perhaps many years in the future, holding their child and the thought makes her smile like a true fool.

 

“It did happen,” Khutulun insists. She lays her head on his chest. His embrace is warm and secure and she feels a deep sense of peace, “They ride on the horizon every night to remind us that if we know our strength and weaknesses, we can accomplish great and impossible things.”

 

She tilts her head to look at him, looking for a sign of understanding. Before her is a high gamble. She is frozen in place, in a state of terrible waiting, wherein she is unable to sway the odds and unable to manipulate the game any further. 

 

Yet she sees in his eyes. He does not hear the tale. In this aspect, they are different beyond measure. 

 

“If you insist it is true, I cannot argue with you. We all have our own truths which facts cannot sway,” Byamba says. He looks up to the sky again, pointing, “What of that star?  Let us make a tale about her. Perhaps she is a stubborn donkey who wandered away from her corral. What do you think?”

 


	11. Chapter 11

They leave Karakorum and spend the next weeks on the steppe, together. The long endless days and the freedom of the open land chase away her worries. She does not fret on her father or the Khan or her place in the world. She is not a warrior, nor a princess. For several days, she is simply Byamba’s wife.

 

They seem to live an entire life in those moments. They catch and prepare and eat every meal together. They talk for days. They sleep in each other’s arms, the earth and sky so silent, they seem to be alone in the world save for the sound of the other’s breath and heartbeat. She nearly forgets herself.

 

It is a pleasant fiction, one that only ends because it must. They cannot stay away. There are matters which still require her attention.

 

They return to her home and her old world races to meet her before they can even step foot in their ger. One of her father’s servants rides out to greet them as they approach Karakorum.

 

“Lord Kaidu requires your immediate attention, Princess Khutulun,” the rider says, “He awaits you in your ger.”

 

It is as if she were pulled from a dream. She can barely comprehend his words. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Byamba’s shock. Then, she remembers the discontent, the anger, the need to settle old scores. Khutulun says to Byamba, “I believe I know what this concerns.”

 

“Tell me,” Byamba says. He wants her to comfort him but she cannot. She is her father’s daughter in this regard: she cannot act until she is both aware and prepared.

 

“I may be incorrect,” Khutulun says. Her words are a lie, phlegmatic and despicable, but she does not pull them back. They are too delicate to handle carelessly and it is not the time, “I would only needlessly unsettle you. Let us see what my father wishes to discuss.” She directs her horse toward their ger before her eyes can betray her.

 

Their ger is just as she remembers it, open, welcoming, uniquely theirs. Knowing her father is waiting, she hurries in, her arms ready to embrace him. Her father stands when he sees her, presses his nose affectionately to her pulse points. Lord Kaidu is tense in her hold. It unsettles her more than any words could.

 

Lord Kaidu reaches for Byamba too, presses their forehead together as he greets the younger man in a hollow tone, “My son.”

 

Unable to watch, Khutulun hurries to make refreshments for her father, her hands and eyes fixed on the task to avoid confronting the scene before her.

 

“Did you enjoy your reprieve?” her father asks as she places a cup of airag in his hand.

 

“Yes,” Khutulun says. Out of instinct, she bows her head. It is a relief to be her father’s dutiful daughter. This role she knows well, “It was pleasant to spend so much time with my new husband. Thank you, father.”

 

“I do hope you enjoy these days. The early time in a marriage is by far the most pleasant in my experience,” Kaidu says. His voice lacks the fondness she is so accustomed to hearing, “Soon you will have children to occupy your thoughts and a household to manage. Take joy in the time you have with each other. These are memories you will cherish.”

 

“We shall, father,” Khutulun says. She gives another cup of airag to Byamba, allowing her fingers to brush against his, a soft attempt at solace. In spite of her action, her husband’s eyes remain clouded. She curses herself.

 

“May your happiness know many days,” Kaidu says. To Khutulun’s surprise, he finishes his drink in one long, deep sip, and then makes quick work of another offering when she refills his cup.

 

Retreating to the comfort of Byamba’s proximity, Khutulun waits for her father to speak. When he does not say a word for several minutes, she asks, fidgeting, “I missed you father. Did you miss me too?”

 

Kaidu smiles, finally. His gaze is warm but she cannot shake the idea that there is more to the glance. She almost senses that he is relieved she had returned, “I did, my dear one. Your brother Chabar was like an insect in my ear, constantly humming unwanted words of advice.”

 

“On what matter did he bother you?” Khutulun asks. Her father and Chabar are not close. Lord Kaidu dislikes his reckless, bold oldest son and Chabar has always seemed to know of his father’s resentment.

 

“The Khan has summoned me to his court,” Kaidu says.

 

Khutulun feels her breath quicken. She suddenly feels overwhelmed by the moment. For many years, she had wondered when this chance would appear. The weight of her husband’s touch on her shoulder brings her back to the ger. Khutulun takes Byamba’s hand, still dizzy.

 

“No doubt he wishes to name himself Great Khan and to discuss the future of his empire with his trusted cousin,” Khutulun say, more to calm herself than to inform her father on the pivotal nature of event before him, “and to give you your share from the conquest of the Song Dynasty.”

 

“An act of good will,” Kaidu says. His eyes are hard and cold and his mouth twists at the very statement, “For the man whom he banished from his full court only weeks ago.”

 

“Forgive my father, Lord Kaidu,” Byamba says. Khutulun hears a distinct hesitation before he adds, “He is rash. Please believe me when I say he thinks very highly of you.”

 

“He acts on his own whims and visions,” Kaidu says, starring at nothing. Knowing he wants more, Khutulun give him another cup of airag and he takes another long sip. “As many great men do. But not all can be so rash. What of the rest of us? Are we to be like grass in the wind, moved by every great burst of wind without any say?”

 

Byamba does not respond and Khutulun feels inclined to say, “He only wishes to give you what you are due.”

 

Her father face grows ugly at the statement. In his eyes, she sees the brothers she lost for the Khan’s empire, the people who were displaced, and the consequences which her father had bore for the sake of another man’s hubris.

 

“What am I due?” Kaidu says, “How shall the Khan repay me for the children I’ve lost in his campaign or the new Chinese empire he creates in scorn of our Mongolian ways? I have bent to his will before. I have gained nothing for my obedience.

 

Byamba says, his voice timid as if he is in his father’s court being chastised, “He seeks to unite the world under one Khan. That is what the great Genghis Khan wanted. What could be more Mongolian than that?”

 

“The great Genghis Khan,” Kaidu says. Khutulun can hear a slur in his words. Her father’s thoughts tumble from his lips without care, “would not have an heir raised in the Chinese way. He would not mock nomads in his own court. Lord Kublai dishonors the legacy which created his world.”

 

“Who can know what grandfather would have wanted?” Khutulun says. Again, she lies. Truly no one can know the Great Khan’s mind. Yet, she and her father have contemplated on the idea for so long. Have they ever acted without thought to what their grandfather would have wanted? Her words feel like a betrayal to her own intention.

 

"No one could know the mind of our great ancestor," Kaidu says, his eyes lingering on his daughter. As she always wanted, he looks to her and no one else. He drinks deeply from his cup before adding, "What I do know is that I want no part of this new empire. I feel compelled to protect what is mine and I see only one way of doing so."

 

"Father," Khutulun says. Again her heart races but this time she is filled with a heady mix of fear and anticipation, "Do you wish to reject the Khan's offering?"

 

"I do not know," Kaidu says. The Lord exhales sharply before saying, more to himself than to his company, “What is there to fear? What is there to gain?”

 

Later, when Lord Kaidu has excused himself, Byamba says to Khutulun, “You must convince your father of the folly of his ways.”

 

“I fear his mind is already set,” Khutulun replies, her hands busy as she rinses the empty pot of airag.

 

Byamba throws himself onto their sleeping furs, his voice terse as he asks, “Did you know? Did you know that this was his ambition? To shame the Khan thusly will lead to only one consequence.”

 

This is what she had feared. He is unaware. The steppe feels a thousand miles away as she says, “I knew your father would call mine to court. That is law. I feared this would be my Lord’s reaction but I did not know it to be fact until this day.”

 

Byamba hangs his head. His fingers begin to knot as he asks, "Is this why our marriage was so hasty?"

 

Khutulun’s blood runs cold. Her voice cracks, deceiving her as she says, "He told me he wanted me closer to the Khan's court. Perhaps it was an attempt at peace between two new empires."

 

"An attempt at peace?" Byamba repeats. To her horror, he takes one of their wooden stools and smashes it on the ground.

 

Khutulun stares at the splinters and broken wood. Her ambition ran deep but when she had vowed herself to him, there had been no false intent. He must know this. "Such was my father's intent. I had no similar motivation when I choose you, Byamba,"  

 

He moves to force her to look at him. When he speaks, his words cut through her like a knife. “If your father does not appear, the Khan will not be permitted to give himself the title of Great Khan. Such an act can and must be met with retribution.”

 

Finally, he speaks with knowledge.

 

“We know this,” Khutulun says, “There is more.”

 

“What more insanity can be mustered from this situation?” Byamba says, with a scoff, his knuckles angrily rubbing his forehead.

 

Anger tightens her throat. How can he not see? Is he so blinded to his father’s ignorance? “My father has claim to lands which are several days journey in extent. We fear your father lusts after my father’s holding and our Khan will use any excuse he can find to take it. I have heard my father speak on his many times but I advised caution. My brother Chapar is fool though and he has been by my father’s side through these past days, no doubt whispering much less advisable words."

 

“You expect your Lord will attempt to protect what is his?” Byamba says. His voice changes. Now, his tone is heavy and emotive, “How does this treachery serve him?”

 

“Like any good general, he does not wish to make the first strike,” Khutulun says, “He would prefer to lay in wait, prepared for when his enemy arrives. This would serve only to show his enemy what he desires.”

 

“By instigating a civil war?” Byamba says. Just as suddenly as he seemed to understand, he returns to foolishness, “By pitting brother against brother, cousin against cousin? Such chaos would never serve a purpose.”

 

“I did not say my father was correct,” Khutulun says, standing, her tall form towering over him. She paces across their ger. Again she is false but only to a point. She had yearned for war, once. Now, however, she is more careful. There is much more at stake now.

 

She is so focused on her pacing that she nearly crashes into him when he blocks her path. She had never liked being weak but she cannot help herself. It is too much, too suddenly.

 

His voice is like a balm on a burning wound when he says, “He holds you as his greatest advisor, Khutulun. Speak to him of your thoughts and he will listen. This is not the first time you have counseled him on war.”

 

 “I can convince him,” Khutulun finds herself saying. Again she lies. She does not know what she will convince her father of. She has not decided. Yet she sees a look of relief pass across his eyes and she says, her words still barely truth, “We depend on it.”

 

Mercifully, he does not return to the subject for the rest of the night. She prepares lamb for him but cannot bring herself to eat.

 

“Wonderful,” Byamba says, visibly grimacing at her attempt to cook. He holds a morsel to her lips, “Very good.”

 

The smell is almost overwhelming. Her mouth bitter with bile, she turns away, barely able to compose herself as she says, “The smell.”

 

“It tastes better than it smells,” Byamba says.

 

Khutulun stands, more forcefully declining his offering. She pulls off her clothes, which the day’s events seem to have made tight and uncomfortable, and lays down, worn and aching. Nestling into their furs, she stretches, her eyes lifting when she sees Byamba is undressing too.  

 

He is so handsome, his strong features illuminated by the dying embers in their hearth. For one brief moment, they are alone again, free from obligations. He is hers, she thinks, he is hers and she will not surrender him. She pushes back the furs and beckons him to join her.

 

“Does this please your eyes?” Byamba asks, coming towards her.

 

It does. She grabs him and has him once again.

 

“Wait for me,” Khutulun says in his ear, afterwards when she is still breathless. She is curled up around him, his back to her chest, her arms tight around him. She can right everything but only if they stand united. He cannot return to his father, not yet. By her words, she can craft a future for them, one that even he cannot deny, “I will ride with my father on the steppe, away from interrupting voices. Promise me you will wait for me to return.”

 

“I will wait,” Byamba says.

 

.

.

.

 

Byamba slumbers, unperturbed by the choice before them. Even at rest, he is steadfast and formidable. She lays her head on his broad chest and watches him, noting the softness in his face and the fixed beating of his heart. Her own pulse thunders in her ears, relentless even as she wills it to slow and calm.

 

This had been the day she had waited so many years for. The more she thought about it and reflected, the more she was certain it was kismet. Every moment, every experience, even choice in her life had come to this. They will not sit idly by and be yoked. They will stand proud against this shift that threatens them. They will honor who they are. However, as she feels their world beginning to tilt, moving towards a new set of circumstances, she finds that it is not thrilling and fulfilling as she had expected. Instead she feels unsettled, torn.

 

She and her father, they were not ones to watch the world and history pass them by. They saw life as a game, one of logic and skill, which they had the talent and the title to influence. It was their duty, their right, to act. Byamba was not of the same mindset. He could rally men but he did not have the same burning desire that she and her father nursed.

 

Khutulun does not sleep. She stays awake, memorizing his marks, the one he gained in the service of his father and the one she made on him. The scars he bears for his father he has worn for years, decades. By her, his skin is stained, from the gashes of her teeth, the deep assault of her fingernails, and the tender afterthought of her lips.

 

She cannot shake the thought that she will fade away. Meanwhile, he will bear his loyalty to his father until his dying day.

 

As she lay next to Byamba, she cannot help but allow her terror to overcome her. Byamba had seemed surprised by her father’s resentment. She had not expected that. Her husband had been angry, furious at the conflict which he had seen brewing between her father and his father. She did not welcome that sentiment at all. It made her almost sick to think about. What if she had miscalculated this time? What if he did not see the worth of Lord Kaidu’s favor as she did? What if he had more love for his father than he had for her?

 

If he chose his own father, if he choose to be the Khan’s son over all else, everything they had would shatter. She could not choose her uncle even if she wanted to. She had known and reconciled this fact long ago but would he able to do the same?

 

She nearly works herself into fits with worry. Byamba would never dishonor his father. He would never give up his title of general and son of the Khan for her. How could she have been so foolish?

 

Khutulun wants desperately to wake Byamba, to confide in him and seek his advice.

 

Yet, she does not. She chastises herself for her doubt. Had he not spent the past months proving to her, more times than she could count, that she was his beloved? How many times had he muttered as much in her ear? How many times had she felt it in his touch and seen it in his eyes? They were not foolish children. She was his wife.

 

He grew weary of Cambulac as well and the court which used him but would never honor his true worth because of his low birth. He could have status here in Karakorum, as her husband and as Lord Kaidu’s son.

 

There were the other concerns as well. It has been nearly two months since she last bled. When she takes off her clothes, she can see what begins.

 

Already in quiet moments, she has begun to wonder. Will the child have her wild streak and his kindness? Will they have her eyes and his height? Would Khutulun see them kneel to Kublai Khan with a clear heart?

 

Even as the question forms in her mind, she knows the truth, in all its details. The seeds of her wishes had been planted in her youth, dangerous and wild sprouts that she had nurtured with her fiery will, stubbornness, and dissent.

 

She desires her father’s title and all its privileges. She wants her father’s khanate and his lands for herself. No one can do better with it than she can.

 

Khutulun takes the night. She presses into her husband’s embrace. Byamba’s arms seem to reach for her even when he sleeps. She finds herself remembering the warmth of his skin and security of his touch.

 

She had promises him that she would counsel her father. She must break this vow. She prays that he knows. By her words, they will become more than they ever hoped to be. He need only have faith in her. And he will. She knows he will.

 

Only when the light of dawn appears on the horizon does she pull away. She dresses quietly, careful not to disturb him. She finds that she moves slowly, her eyes easily pulled to his sleeping form. For a brief moment, she wants to undress again and join him. It is his habit to wake early and she would not have to wait long. She imagines holding him tightly, kissing the curve of his cheek until her lips are near his ear and telling him that soon she will make him a father.

 

Yet this is the coward’s way. She could dodge her duty for now but she cannot escape it forever. She takes her leave without looking back over her shoulder at him.

 

Khutulun finds her favored horse, a small black mare that runs faster than the wind. It is a regal animal, agile and certain, a stead for a Khagan. When the beast is ready with her finest saddle and harness, she goes to fetch her father.

 

.

.

.

 

Her father pushes his horse, tearing across the open plains of the steppe like a powerful wind, the beast and his lord whipping a path through the grass. Much to her annoyance, he ignores his daughter’s calls to slow.

 

Khutulun’s horse trembles underneath her, eager to ride faster and race her father’s stead. Yet Khutulun is not herself. She is weary from her lack of sleep and present state. She pushes herself just enough to keep her father in sight but she cannot muster the will or the strength to meet him.

 

They ride for hours. The steppe, her solace from trying times, gave her no comfort in that time.

 

She ponders what she wishes to say. She must know his thoughts on the choice before them and she will consider his opinion. Yet she knows what must transpire now. She had known for many years. To war they must go.

 

Khutulun finds herself, most unexpectedly, trapped in place. She detested this new doubt. Now was not the time for this foolishness.

 

She must be steadfast. She could not rely on her father for this.

 

Finally she cannot allow his indulgences anymore. She pushes her horse, digging her heels into the mare's flank until she has passed her father. She turns severely yanking the reins so hard her horse huffs indignantly. Her father's steed dig it’s hooves into the earth, nearly throwing her father to avoid her.  
  
Her father is unnerved even by this abrupt stop. Khutulun takes his reins from his hands and finally he looks at her.

 

“Tell me your thoughts,” Khutulun says.

 

Her father’s eyes move to examine the space around him. Even here, miles from any ears, unfriendly or otherwise, he is suspicious. She had little affection for his persistent need to be cautious but she had always respected it.

 

“To what do you refer daughter?” Lord Kaidu says, his eyes fixed on the horizon, away from her intent eyes.

 

Khutulun bites her cheek, forcing her annoyance to retreat, so that she may say, in a respectful tone, “You know of what I speak.”

 

“The Khan’s offer,” Lord Kaidu says, “When we return, we must make preparations for the journey.”

 

“Must we?” Khutulun asks.

 

Her father smirks, shaking his head as if she is a disobedient child begging for a sweet they had been forbidden from having, “Yes, Khutulun. We must.”

 

She has give him advice on many occasions but on this, he has always been conflicted. Even now, she can see doubt in his eyes. “Do not think me a fool,” Khutulun says, “Know that I understand and am your greatest asset.”

 

Finally, he tears his gaze from the horizon and turns his focus to her. “I do not think you are a fool. You are the only one I trust. That is why I favor you above the rest.”

 

“Then tell me, what will we do in response to the Khan’s orders?” Khutulun says. Her voice is irate even to her own ears but she cannot bring herself to care. There is a fine line between cowardice and caution.

 

“What would you have me do, Khutulun?” Lord Kaidu says back, his tone matching hers, “I let the drink get to my head and misspoke. I think clearly now. My actions have the weight of hundreds of thousands of lives. What I desire and what I believe are insignificant.”

 

“I know this,” Khutulun says, “That is why I beg you to act for your people. What do they require?”

 

“Who can say? Is it my place? Have I the wisdom to know what must be done?”

 

“I do not know any more than you do. A single action can have a thousand consequences, each less predictable than the next. I do know that what I have seen Kublai Khan do with his might. He wishes to hold power over the entire world and he will trample Mongolia in the attempt.”

 

“And I will destroy our homeland as well if I attempt to stop him,” Lord Kaidu snaps, “Everything that we have will burn if I rebel.”

 

“What you describe has already transpired. How much have we sacrificed for his vision? You have lost children. We have lost cousins, brothers, and friends. We are not alone in this sacrifice,” Khutulun retorts, “Do you not see father? Your complacency carries the same peril.”

 

“I cannot curse such a bloody fate and then pursue the same for myself,” Lord Kaidu says, snapping his horse’s reins from her hands and sliding off his horse. The sun is beginning to set and her father pulls his things from his bag to prepare camp.

 

“I mean no disrespect father,” Khutulun says. She dismounts as well, reaching to help him unpack, “Tell me truthfully. Do you not disagree with what the Khan wishes for our empire?”

 

“You know that I do disagree,” Lord Kaidu says, his jaw tight.

 

“Then you cannot expect that you can continue as you do, silent and obedient, and achieved a different result than what you have now. You cannot stand by the Khan’s side and pray that he will come to see reason. Such would be true insanity.”

 

“The Khan does not listen to reason, Khutulun. I have argued against his campaigns for years and not once had he heard me,” Lord Kaidu says, his voice thundering. He inhaled deeply and grinds his teeth to calm himself. Still, when he speaks, his tone is annoyed, “Yet he is my Khan. I must go when called up and obey him. That is the order of things.”

 

Khutulun knows what she will say next. The words form easy in her mind and she is certain of them. She hesitates, however, for they cannot be taken back once said. “You have always taught me the importance of obedience and loyalty yet I see that you waste these noble traits on Kublai Khan.”

 

“Speak plainly Khutulun. I listen to you and no other. What can I do?” Lord Kaidu sighs, “It is not my choice, nor has it ever been my choice. The future I act upon is yours. Tell me what you desire and I will make it.”

 

Her mind wanders back to Karakorum, to Byamba. She will beg for his forgiveness but this must be done. Her heart aches with guilt as she says, ““Refuse the Khan’s offer. Do not go to his court. Show him that we stand in opposition to his wishes.”

 

Lord Kaidu’s eyes shine in the light of the sun. He turns away, looking across the swaying golden grass around them, which seems to move as if ordered to by a great, invisible force, “Such an action cannot be taken lightly. The Khan would be denied a great title. He would be furious.”

 

“Were you not furious when my brothers died at Wu Chang for his son’s arrogance? And when I nearly fell at the wall in Xiangyang? How did you feel then? Tell me your thoughts when you heard him speak against us in his court, when he called you a coward for protecting your men and your city.”

 

“Again, you act too rashly,” her father says, “I could have my revenge but what then? What will we do when the Khan’s wrath is upon us?”

 

“It is not revenge,” Khutulun says, “We merely see our people’s livelihoods being threatened and moved to act.”

 

“And I ask again, Khutulun. What will you do? If we break from the Khan’s way, what sort of kingdom will you create? Do you think you know better than Kublai Khan?”

 

“I cannot say. Yet, I will do what I have always done. I will trust and follow your will, father. I have never been led astray. I would happily give my life to you. There is no greater cause in my eyes than to serve you. You should be Khan. I will learn from you and one day, when you deem me ready, I will rule in your stead. All that I ask is that you put your faith in me as I put mine in you.”

 

Her father turns, his gaze hard on her, “You wish for the khanate?”

 

Khutulun stands straight, meeting his eyes with equal intensity, “I do. Choose me, father. No one is better suited to the task.”

 

“I have pondered such an idea many times as well. I would never force such a title on you though. It will be no easy task, Khutulun. You have our people’s love but you still must earn their respect,” Lord Kaidu says, “Are you prepared to do so?”

 

She does not hesitate. “I am, father.”

 

Lord Kaidu looks across the steppe, back in the direction of Karakorum and beyond. He seems to stare forever at the empty plain. Khutulun shifts. The weight of this decision is not lost on her. This choice will determine her entire future.

 

Finally, her father’s speaks, “I have lied to myself a hundreds time on this matter over the years. Yet, I find you give me courage. I would have a child of Genghis on the throne once more. We will not supplicate for the Khan any further. We will make no appearance in his court.”

 

“Very good father,” Khutulun says. Fear runs cold through her veins but she is filled with a settling certainty. This is what she has always desired. She will not falter. She will take what she is due. Then, on sheer impulse, she adds, “When I lead our people, I will make you proud, father.”

 

She holds her breath. Is this too much? Has she overstepped? So much as has already transpired. Is it reasonable to expect this great change too? Yet, almost instantly, the look in her father’s eyes shifts again.

 

Lord Kaidu says, “I know that you will, Khutulun. I can think of no hands better suited to guide our house than yours.”

 

And with this simple phrase, she is made her father’s heir. Khutulun feels her hand go to rest on her navel. There is nothing under her palm but soft flesh. Still, she cannot shake the thought that this is the beginning of a great happening. She will one day lead the house of Ogedei and so will her children.

 

The moment the thought is had, she knows she cannot take it back. It seems to echo in her mind for an eternity. Her terror at the thought does not diminish but in that moment, she feels a happy thrill. She and Byamba will have a child, Khutulun thinks again, unable to suppress a grin. They will have everything they ever hoped for and more.

 

They spend the night on the steppe. Once again, Khutulun barely sleeps. Her mind is filled with thoughts. What had been dreams before could now become ideas and those ideas could become action. What had once been only grand vision could now be given life.  

 

Sleep finds her in the early hours of the morning. Khutulun awaken several hours later, when the sun is high in the sky. She and her father eat a small meal and then ride back to Karakorum. Her father does not push his horse this time. They are both silent, lost in thought over the great task before them.

 

Khutulun finds herself thinking of Byamba again. Old insecurities rear their ugly head. He must turn his back on everything he has ever known. All that he will have in the world is her and the life they will make in Karakorum. Will it be enough? Or will he find that the sacrifice is too great for what he gains? Will he be resentful or will he be happy with that which they gain in return?

 

“We must stop,” Lord Kaidu says when the sun is beginning to sink on the horizon. Their horses are weary from riding and already there is a chill in the air.

 

Her body aches from riding. She desires nothing more than a meal and a night’s rest. They will surely be lost in the night if they continue riding. Yet for reasons she cannot fathom, she feels an almost overwhelming desire to push on to Karakorum. There is no reason behind the need to return home. She obliges with her father but even as she sinks into her sleeping furs, she cannot shake the urge to race back to Byamba.

 

The impulse does not fade throughout the night. The next day, Khutulun can barely contain her anxiousness. The moment Karakorum appears on the horizon, she breaks away from her father, pushing her horse towards their city. She had missed Byamba in the days they have been apart and yearns to hold him. As she flies through the gates, she already begins to contemplate what she will say to him.

 

He must know of their intention. She must be tactful in this regard. It is no longer a simple thought that she alone carries. He must know of the changes that will be upon them very soon.

 

First, however, before their lives become a complex web of politics, she would take a moment to share more pressing news with him. As she races through the capitol to their ger, her mind is filled with silly, romantic ideas. She imagines he will be very pleased to know of her secret. He will no doubt try to assuage her fears. Perhaps they will commiserate on their desires for their child.

 

There is no one else in the world that she would have be the father of her children. She wishes for him to know this too.

 

Her hands fumble with excitement as she removes the saddle and reins from her horse. Khutulun tosses the restraints to the side, scratching her mare’s neck, as she feeds the beast a handful of oats. She is still smiling, with abandon, when she hears her name being called.

 

Khutulun turns to see her sisters approach. Panang’s face is the color of ash, her arms tight around Beretude, whose eyes are red from crying. Maidar stands away from the others, a strange contrast, with eyes that are dark with fury. Saruul is moving towards Khutulun, reaching out with a soft hand for her youngest sister.

 

Only then does Khutulun see beyond them. Her ger is dark, empty. She does not need to enter to know the truth. Byamba did not listen to her. He did not wait for her to return. He has chosen his father.


	12. Chapter 12

“Wait, sister. Stop,” Saruul says, reaching out to grip Khutulun’s arm tightly. They stand just outside their father’s ger. Khutulun wears her full armor and Saruul dons the protection of her silk robes and the regal headdress which marks her title as Lord Kaidu’s daughter. 

 

Khutulun winces. She would have preferred quiet. Her sister’s presence had been like a warm embrace and it had allowed her mind to settle for the first time in days. Yet she had known counsel was coming, even if she did not wish for it. Saruul had walked next to Khutulun in silence, her mouth pinched tightly shut as if she could hardly bear to hold her tongue.

 

“I will tell him,” Saruul says. Her voice makes Khutulun shudder again. Her sister is usually in the habit of using a low and controlled tone which forces others to listen, something most are prone to do. Now, her words tumble from her mouth, much too anxious for Khutulun’s liking.

 

Khutulun considers the proposal. She knows why Saruul makes her offer. She does not wish to see either her father or her younger sister in pain. Saruul would rather negotiate between them, allowing both to save face in front of the other. 

 

Khutulun shakes her head, removing herself from Saruul’s grip, “It must be me.”

 

“Little sister - ” Saruul says, moving to hold Khutulun again. 

 

“It must be me,” Khutulun says, jerking away, her movements more forceful this time. Saruul pulls her hand back upon seeing this, her eyes wide as she watches her younger sister duck her head and enter their father’s ger. 

 

Her father sits alone, a wide scroll before him. Lord Kaidu has taken to reviewing old philosophy, the same works his grandfather Genghis Khan once called upon for wisdom. He clenches his jaw, as he often does when heavy thoughts weigh on his mind. 

 

“Father, ” Khutulun says as she falls to bow before him, going further than her customary kneel to press her face and body to the ground. She rises but does not stand. Lord Kaidu looks up from his reading to study her. He glares at the sight of her gratuitous supplication. 

 

“Daughter,” Lord Kaidu says, “What do you wish of me?”

 

Khutulun stares at the ground underneath her hands. Her fingers curl as emotion overcomes her. Her voice cracks as she says, “I wish for your forgiveness, Father. I have failed you.”

 

Lord Kaidu meets her gaze, his muscles rigid as he listens, his focus on her alone, “What do you mean?”

 

The tent flap behind her moves and Khutulun knows without looking that Saruul has joined them. Her sister kneels quickly, her shoulder touching Khutulun’s, before moving to stand in the corner. 

 

Lord Kaidu sits upright, looking to Saruul, who dutifully watches her feet, and then to Khutulun, who remains on her hands and knees before him. 

 

“I wish to be by your side when you go to war,” Khutulun says, her voice urgent with need to be understood. She looks to her father, “Nothing will change that. I spoke honestly. I am not your daughter. I am your ally.”

 

“I know this,” Lord Kaidu says, “Something troubles you. Tell me so that I may ease your suffering.”

 

The words are painful to speak. She stares at the ground, feeling inferior to the dirt upon which she kneels. Khutulun’s chest aches so intensely, she fear she will lose breath and die. Her blood pounds in her ears as she says, “I am with child.”

 

She hangs her head. The healers had confirmed her suspicions that morning. She does not want him to know that her first emotion had been one of joy. She had been so happy at the thought of this child that she had wept, alone in her ger, her hand stroking her navel where already she could feel the beginning of something.

 

Nor does she want him to know her second emotion had been nervousness, born from doubt over her own ability to raise a child. She had been almost dizzy at the thought, overwhelmed by the task before her. 

 

Only her third emotion had been shame. Only then had she remembered her dishonor.

 

Lord Kaidu stands, moving around his table until he is before his kneeling daughter. Khutulun hangs her head lower, lest he see her face and know her foolishness. Her father reaches down and pulls her to her feet, lifting her chin when she bends her head in a silent plea for mercy.

 

“I will wait to have you by my side. You spoke the truth. You are my ally,” Lord Kaidu says, shifting so that she is forced to look into his eyes. His face holds a look of warmth and kindess and her heart is lighter at the sight.

 

Khutulun smiles, her eyes wet with relief. 

 

“And the child? What will be done with the child?” Saruul says from her corner, her voice grave. Khutulun turns to look at her sister, remembering only then that there is more. This moment had been what Saruul wished to protect Khutulun from. 

 

“You will take the child, Saruul. Your husband is a honored general. No one will speak ill of him or his family,” Lord Kaidu says, with almost no contemplation on the matter, “It will be the proper thing to do.”

 

It will be the proper thing to do. Saruul is their father’s oldest child, a married women with status who can raise a bastard without enduring a tongue lashing from the rumors of their tribe. Khutulun would not be afforded the same luxury. 

 

This is her choice, she tells herself. She choose her father over all others. Yet the words will not leave her mouth. Her throat is tight, forcing her to be silent. 

 

Her father, as if reading her thoughts, comes close to her, cups her cheek in his palm. “I waged war in your name, because you are devoted to me and no other. You cannot leave me now.”

 

There is a glimmer in his eyes, something unexpected, like a desert snake slithering through the shifting sand. There can be only one answer. She has never seen this side of her father. It gives rise to unfortunate thought, one that she cannot foster and promptly crushes. So she lies.

 

“I do not want this,” Khutulun lies, broadening her shoulders and straightening her back. She forces herself to speak louder, her words barely a rasp on her lips, “They will be Saruul’s child, father.”

 

.

.

.

 

When it is quiet and she has nothing to distract herself with, she finds her eyes moving to watch the horizon. She would never admit to what she is looking for. 

 

She could not grasp the depths of this fault. She had prided herself on seeing the truth, in all persons and circumstances. Yet on this, in spite of all her attempts to find evidence otherwise, she had been wrong. She had not been deemed worthy of devotion. She had not been wanted. She had been weighed, compared, and discarded.

 

She had feared this loss more than she realized and if she allowed herself, she knew it would tear her apart. She cannot allow herself to be despondent though. Her father and her people need her. She throws herself into her cause. 

 

It will be only a matter of time before Kublai Khan moves to strike at them. Lord Kaidu believes that it is better to defend than to attack. It drives Khutulun mad to obey his wishes but she has no choice, not in her present state. They prepare, discreetly pulling together troops and supplies, analyzing circumstances to estimate the Khan’s first strike, and readying their city for a war. 

 

Khutulun takes her own measures as well. She send spies to Cambulac and they bring her back report and much more. It is impossible to know the truth but rumors from Karakorum trickle back to her. 

 

There are many who say her marriage to Byamba was false, a mean of concealing promiscuous ways which prevent her from knowing who the true father of her child is. Some say the child is born from an incestuous relationship with her father. 

 

By the word of the Khan, there is only one truth however The Khan and his family denounce her marriage and the child who is the product of the union. 

 

When she hears this, it is as if she had swallowed poison. Every unit of her being stings, raw and vulnerable, until she forces them away in favor of more pressing concern. She wants to be furious. Thousands had been present to her union. Her father had sanctioned their bond. This is a weak attempt at withholding what is their right by birth. 

 

Yet anger eludes her. At night in her ger, she finds herself imaging him. How his eyes had followed her, his face shining with affection. The way he had been so consumed with touching her when she had given herself to him. The way he had always listened to her with respect and rapt attention. The way he had fisted his hand into her hair when he was most passionate and the way it had thrilled her to feel him cling to her.

 

There is one recollection which always rises above the others. He had never demanded she honor his victory. ‘Battle me.’ That is what he had said to her, the challenge, the promise, he had made to her. 

 

It is the memory that she cannot chase away. He had given her what she had always wanted. He had not thought her a prize to win. He had wanted her to want him but beyond that he had valued her and her wishes. 

 

It is of little consequence though. He has made his alliances and so has she. She should have known better. 

 

Still, she does not stop wanting him, even when he is gone. This is what makes her most distressed. 

 

.

.

.

 

Ashes fluttered from the sky like snow. The air still burns in her lungs as she inhales. The colors and sounds of the massacre bleed into her thoughts when she blinks. It is suffocating.

 

Her father detested drinking, thought it made men into base animals. Yet that evening, he had silently placed a cup of airag in front of her. Khutulun picks up the drink but does not sip. Her mind begins to wander, away from the memories of war and back to the Karakorum and the steppe. She sees the land in her mind, the golden grass and the absolute silence. She imagines herself, nameless. She thinks of sweet nothingness and a gentle hum begins to surround her thoughts and the ache in her belly dulls.

 

A soldier tosses more wood on the fire. Khutulun watches as the flames grow, sparks leaping up into the night. The moon is high in the sky. The battle had been chaos, a confusion of blood, charred lives, and screams for mercy that went unheard. It is silent now, the kind of quiet that echoed in the mind and could bring insanity if one allowed it to consume.

 

Khutulun crosses her legs and holds out her cup so that her nephew Tegus might have a sip.

 

The boy does not respond to the cup in front of him. He stares, forlornly, at nothing.

 

Khutulun shifts, glancing at her father out of the corner of her eye. Lord Kaidu sit across the fire from them, in a place of honor close to their victorious generals. As if he feels her eyes upon him, her father looks towards his daughter and grandchild.

 

“Tegus,” Khutulun says, “Lord Kaidu is watching.”

 

Her nephew bites his lip, his thin body shaking like a leaf caught in a breeze. His chest heaves under the weight of suppressed tears, making his breath frantic and uneven.

 

Khutulun leans closer to Tegus so that she may whisper in his ear, “Acknowledge him. Show him that you are strong.”

 

“I am not strong,” Tegus mutters.

 

“Then pretend to be strong,” Khutulun says, “You are of the House of Ogedei. Do not shame our family in front of our men.”

 

Tegus straightens his back, his face rigid as he looks towards his grandfather. Lord Kaidu raises his cup and drinks. Khutulun nods in kind. Tegus twists his hands, his eyes already looking beyond his grandfather into the dark sky.

 

Finally, Lord Kaidu turns away. Tegus’ voice is like broken glass as he says to Khutulun. “Can we excuse ourselves?”

 

Khutulun nods, tossing her airag away before helping Tegus to his feet. The boy clings to her hand even as he stands. Jaw clenched, she pulls away from him.

 

They share their ger with four other soldiers so she leads him to the edge of camp where the air is cold and silent. This is often her habit. She finds that the stillness brings a tranquility to her thoughts. Beyond the tents and men, a tall solitary figure sits, his hands busy as he cleans his blade.

 

She is not surprised to find her brother Orus there, away from the noise of camp.

 

“If you are here to praise my bravery or comment on my dedication to our father, I accept you compliments but ask that you leave this hero to his own silence,” Orus smiles and Khutulun feels her heart warm at the sight.

 

“No. We have no desire to talk about the battle. We desire silence as well,” Khutulun says, “May we join you?”

 

Orus nods, gesturing towards a soft patch of grass near him. Away from unwanted attention, she can pull off her thick cloak. Her belly has grown greatly in the last month alone. There can be no doubt as to her condition anymore. Khutulun settles, keenly aware her brother is studying her. Finally, he returns to his work and Khutulun curls up into herself, comforted by Orus’ presence. Tegus seats himself next to her, his body pressed close to her.

 

Khutulun breathes deeply. The silence seems to settle onto her skin and spread through her veins. The mess of thoughts in her mind, the nauseating disarray of many different emotions and contemplations that she cannot begin to make sense of, begins to grow blissfully quiet.

 

Khutulun leans back, resting on her palm. Within her, she can feel movement, purposeful steps and quick jabs. With a tense smile, she places an affectionate palm over the unborn child’s happy kicking. 

 

Without warning, Tegus presses his face against Khutulun’s shoulder and begins to cry. Earlier he had sobbed loudly, his eyes unable to look away from the blood covering the sand around him. Khutulun had slapped him and he had come to his senses. Now, she permits his expression.

 

Orus glances at Tegus and then goes back to his cleaning. Khutulun looks to the stars, searching for constellations as she waits for her nephew to calm.

 

Finally, Tegus pulls away from her, his breath steadying. He wipes his swollen face, his eyes examining Orus and Khutulun for their reaction to his outburst. Kaidu’s son smiles ruefully at the young boy. Khutulun dutifully ignores her nephew.

 

“If I had stolen a horse, I would have lost my hand,” Tegus says, his voice still quivering, “Today, I robbed many men of their very breath and I am being praised.”

 

Orus speaks first, “You did only as commanded.”

 

“That does not justify my actions!” Tegus says, his voice cracking, “What gives Lord Kaidu the right to order the death of his enemies?”

 

“Be silent,” Khutulun snaps.

 

“Mother packed my bags. Father sharpened my sword. I said goodbye and no one warned me,” Tegus says, panting, “I robbed children of their fathers and wives of their husbands. I should be executed.”

 

“Tegus - ”

 

“How can you stand this?” Tegus cries, “How can you sleep or eat or breath knowing the blood of strangers is on your hands?”

 

Khutulun contemplates his words. Distantly, she knows she should feel guilt or sadness for her actions. She does not; only a strange hollowness. She says, simply, “It is not our choice.”

 

“Not our choice?” Tegus demands, “How can it not be our choice?! One always has choice.”

 

Orus snorts. Tegus lifts his eyes towards the older warrior, glaring deeply.

 

“You think I am foolish?” Tegus snaps.

 

“I think you do not have the experience to know the ways of the world,” Orus says, “I think you are young and naive. I encourage you to learn better. Your ignorance is a burden.”

 

“What should I know better then? Where is the err in my thinking?” Tegus says, “Tell me, uncle. How am I wrong to think poorly of the vicious slaughter we just took part in.”

 

“When I was your age, I thought the world was simple too. I thought there was evil and beneficence and that they were two distinct faces. They are not. Our actions might be seen as depraved, immoral, foul by one party and judicious and necessary by another,” Orus says.

 

His words settle into Khutulun’s mind, bringing a calm clarity. She adds, “Ideas such as virtue and morals do not matter. In the end, we are leaves caught in current of a great river.”

 

Orus turns his gaze to look at her. Khutulun wonders if he is remembering the aftermath of their first battle. She is: her own experience had been one of burning sleeplessness and empty nights that still feel new in her mind. As for Orus, if she recollects correctly, he had been cursed with silence, a complete inability to speak about anything. At the time, they had spent their nights as they do now, away from the sounds of other soldiers, together.

 

He nods, a slight gesture, and she thinks that he does in fact recall her insomnia and his muteness. She nods back, a silent vow of reticence.

 

“True choice, unclouded by the influence of others, is a rare things. One gifted only to those with status. For the rest of us, we only have the barest of influences on our own direction,” Orus says, “Your title is your only power as it is mine and Lady Khutulun’s. When we take our place as warriors, our life is in our own hands.”

 

“That is your truth?” Tegus says, jumping to his feet, “Become a tool of destruction?” He spits upon the ground.

 

“War and life are suffering for many and victory for a select few,” Khutulun says, her eyes on Orus’s hands as he dips his cloth into a pot of oil at his feet and begins to shine his blade, “One can be the conqueror or the conquered. That is a decision you have the privilege of making. There is aggression in the blood of all men. If it were not us wielding the victorious weapons, it would be others.”

 

“That is the nature of duty,” Orus adds, “You are a means towards a cause greater than yourself. Do not fret on the idea of right or wrong. It all adds to a sum you cannot yet grasp or influence.”

 

“That is no life. That is a curse,” Tegus says. He claws at the sword on his belt, throwing his sheathed blade to the ground before stomping off into the darkness.

 

“He will return,” Khutulun says.

 

“He has no choice,” Orus says.

 

That is true. Yet, Khutulun still watches her nephew racing off into the darkness until she can no longer see him. She allows a small part of her to mourns with Tegus, “We go east next. Father says now is the time for him to focus his efforts on protecting the land where Genghis Khan was born.”

 

“Do you think he moves to protect those lands or assert his claim to them?” Orus asks.

 

Khutulun is quiet. Orus nods, satisfied by her silent response.

 

“Indeed.”

 

“We do what we must,” Khutulun says without thinking, “Not all campaigns are noble.”

 

Orus’s hands freeze. Her words had sounded like treason. She had lectured her nephew on duty and then cursed her own.

 

“May our blades be easy to their purpose,” Orus says. He smiles at her with mocking cheerfulness.

 

She knows why he is so sardonic. Even in the darkness, she can see the long, corded muscles pressing against his dark skin as he extends his thigh. When he turns just so, she can see healing scar where they had burned the flesh to stop the bleeding. In weak moments, she can still hear his screams. Her brother would never wield a blade in battle again.

 

As for Khutulun, she is struck once again by the weakness which had become all too familiar. She curses the uncertainty but it will not fade. She does not know where the sentiment came from but she has no love for it. Yet it is there in the quiet of night when she is alone in her ger with no company beyond the movement of the growing life inside her. 

 

Their eyes meet and there is a strange intensity in his gaze, one so piercing she wants to look away but cannot bring herself to.

 

Orus finally turns away, raising his cleaning cloth, muttering a mantra before tossing the linen into his bucket of oil. He says to Khutulun, “A blessing for the soul that perished.”

 

“May they find peace,” Khutulun whispers. 

 

She wants to say more. Something, old resentment or new concerns, had begun to breed doubt within her. It is not fear of battle or a lapse of faith in her cause. Her dedication is as steadfast as it has ever been. The thing which haunts her thoughts is softer, a thing she had not thought herself capable of.

 

Even now it is present. This will not do. She had sworn to her father that her arrangements were set. Saruul would raise the child. They would call Khutulun aunt and her shame would be forced into obscurity. The child would not have their father’s deceit overhead and Khutulun could attend to the enormous task before her.

 

Yet now, she is not so sure. She cannot say when it began. It seemed to have been born when the midwives told her it was fact. She also knew that she had felt it when she noticed the strange new presence around her abdomen. Truly, however, it had never been more apparent then she felt the movement of the unborn child that she planned to carry and then give to another.

 

They moved with intent, their feet firm and certain, only appearing, like an expression of her true self, when Khutulun is alone.

 

She has never broken her promises. Now, however, she wishes to break her vow.

 

Such is like bile in her throat. Her thoughts are her own and they are her painful truth but she would not dare speak them. Instead she says, “These are our secrets which we shared tonight.”

 

As if to mock her and remind her, Khutulun feels the unborn child move again, their steps so much like a wrestler circling an opponent in a ring, Khutulun finds herself bitterly smiling.

 

Orus sees the smile and a glimmer of understanding passes across his eyes. He responds, “I will never tell another what was said.”

 

.

.

.

 

“I mixed it with honey, as I prefer it,” Marco says, handing her a bowl of hot boiled grains. Khutulun eyes the mixture, suspicious as Marco adds, “My aunt said it settles the stomach and gives women strength for the trials of labor.”

 

Khutulun tastes the offering. It is warm and soothing  but without strong flavor. She takes another bite, nodding at Marco who smilez upon seeing her approval. He prepares a bowl for himself and sits next to her. 

 

Silence fills her ger. Etiquette would state that Khutulun should make an attempt at conversation but she can think of no topic worthy of pursuit. She had only invited the Latin to her home as a favor to her father. Lord Kaidu wished to hear news from Cambulac. 

 

Khutulun is in no mood for such games. Her body has betrayed her, become an unyielding, aching form, and she wishes only for sleep.

 

Marco shifts, his shoulders tense, as she clears his throat and says, “I have not heard much of you, Lady Khutulun. What have you been up to? How do you fare?”

 

Khutulun chews, the grains like paste in her mouth. It allows her a moment of contemplation. “I am as I have always been. I strive to prove myself worthy to my father. Everything else is of little concern.”

 

The Latin, in a move of unparalleled tactlessness, allows his eyes to drop to her round midsection. She clears her throat loudly and he stutters, “Your father has much to be proud of.” 

 

“Does he?” Khutulun says, allowing venom to seep into her words. She wonder if her father would be displeased if she beheaded the Latin rather than prod him for information. 

 

The Latin opens and closes his mouth before he manages to blurt out, “Yes. You are as lovely and intelligent as ever.”

 

Khutulun scoffs. 

 

“I have fared well too. I have been endowed with great honor. I travel the lands of your great grandfather establishing trade,” Marco smiles to himself, “I have more than I ever wanted and then some.”

 

“I am pleased,” Khutulun says, dryly. She places her bowl on the ground before her, leaning back to rest on her elbows. The baby has been restless as of late and today is no exception. The rhythmic cadence of the child’s feet had been present without stop since the morning. It would not be long now, she thinks. 

 

“Do you feel your child move, eager to make their entrance into the world?” Marco asks. 

 

“Yes, they are quite insistent, particularly at night. They seem intent on preventing me from sleep,” Khutulun says, her hand stroking her abdomen in spite of her words, “I keep promising that I will leave them on the steppe for the wolves to raise if they do not stop and let me rest but they do not heed my words.” 

 

Marco smiles, “They take after you in that regard, do they not?”

 

Khutulun smirks, “I hope that is the only trait they take from me.”

 

Having finished his helping, Marco reaches for her abandoned bowl. She sees him fidget under her gaze before he says, “I spoke to him.”

 

A chill runs through Khutulun’s veins. Forcing her tone to be even, she replies, “You spoke to who?”

 

“You know who,” Marco says. She turns away but this only makes him speak with more urgency, “He is a hollow shell of himself.”

 

“Good,” Khutulun snaps, “Let him suffer as this child will suffer for his rejection.”

 

“You misunderstand,” Marco says. He reaches out and takes her hand, quickly pulling away when she gives him an icy glare, “It was not his decision. Empress Chabi spoke. He had no choice but to obey.”

 

“Do not come into my home and lie to me Latin,” Khutulun snaps. Her throat feels tight and she is forced to hold back, biting her lip to prevent her tears from flowing.

 

“I would never lie on this,” Marco says, “I seek only to advocate for him as he once did for me.”

 

“I cannot excuse this, Polo. I would have died before I betrayed him,” Khutulun says. Yet, she pauses. Had she not been false? Had she not wondered if she had lied to him that night before she had conferred with her father? She does not give these thoughts weight. Instead, she says, “This is none of your concern.” 

 

Marco pulls away, bowing his head to her. He is wise in this regard. He knows when retreat is a valid option. 

 

“Tell me of Cambulac,” Khutulun says, “Tell me of the Khan’s court.”

 

Marco nods and obliges.  

 

.

.

.

 

They would not speak to her but she knew, without being told, that the labor was not going well.

 

The midwives had wrung her hands when she had examined Khutulun, days prior, stating only that the child was appeared to be bigger than expected. The woman hadn’t voiced concern. Khutulun could not blame her. The midwife was wise, knew that in no way would it serve her to allow doubt in her abilities to be bred. 

 

The midwife had given Khutulun a poultice to bring birth early. Then, for the next several nights, she had taken it upon herself to sleep in a nearby servant’s ger, mere steps away, ready to serve her princess.

 

Still, Khutulun is unprepared. She had awoken in the middle of the night. The air was blistering hot. Khutulun listened, uncertain as to what prompted her to awaken. It was quiet, calm, yet her heart seemed to pound in her ears as if she is in the heat of battle. 

 

Her sisters, Saruul with particular insistence, had offered to sleep in her ger. Khutulun had refused. She had come to find any eyes, even those of her family, were infuriating to her. It had become exhausting to pretend she did not care. Only in solituide was she able to indulge her frustration. 

 

In those early hours, she comes to see the fault in her decision. It is nothing like the labors she had attended for her sisters, cousins, and aunts. There is no gradual aching or slow shift into the process. The pain tears across her abdomen, so intense, she can barely breath. She has shattered bones, torn muscles, and burned flesh but such injury is nothing compared to that moment in the empty ger. 

 

Khutulun cries out. She hears footsteps racing outside her door and the midwife arrived mercifully soon thereafter. The woman is strong and assured. She offers calming words as she moves to inspect. Khutulun finds herself beginning to settle. For several minutes there is a quiet peace. Then the pain begins again. 

 

The midwife hauls Khutulun to her feet. Clutching the woman’s hand Khutulun allows herself to be led around the ger. The pain returns, so intense, Khutulun’s knees go weak. The midwife allows Khutulun to sink to the floor, to catch her breath. Then she hauls Khutulun to her feet and they continue their march.

 

This continues for hours. It is almost dull. An endless walk around the perimeter of the ger interrupted with increasing episodes of pain. Lines of sunlight filter into the ger as dawn breaks.

 

The midwife stops and checks Khutulun. The woman glares, feeds a handful of bitter herbs to Khutulun and then pulls her charge to her feet to continue their march. Outside, Karakorum awakens. The sounds of animals and citizens going about their day reach Khutulun’s ears, a slight distraction from the violent pain between her legs.

 

The midwife checks Khutulun’s progress again. This time when she pulls away, the midwife’s hands are red with thick blood. 

 

The midwife pulls out a porcelain bottle. She pulls the stopper and the ger fills with a sickly sweet smell. The midwife presses the stopper which is covered in a thick, sticky substance to Khutulun’s lips. Within several seconds, the world seems to become very dull and blurry. Time slips by. The day becomes night again. 

 

The midwife speaks to her apprentice. The girl races from the ger, returning soon thereafter with Saruul. Her oldest sister takes in the scene before her, before calmly moving to hold Khutulun, smoothing her younger sister’s hair.

 

By that time, Khutulun’s furs are soaked in blood. Her sister speaks to her with gentle words and a kind touch but Khutulun cannot think beyond the excruciating pain. It dulls all her sense. Even the sensation of screaming is distant. By the time she feels the urge to push, she is certain she has died and is dreaming of the labor from another beyond. 

 

The midwife demands that Khutlun bear down and she obeys, grinding her teeth so hard, she is certain her teeth will shatter. Yet her baby sits in her stomach like a stone, unmoved despite her efforts.

 

They manipulate her body, shift her legs and pressing against her form. With each change in position, a new panic fills the midwife’s eyes. Beyond her haze, Khutulun begins to understand. The baby is trapped.

 

The happy kicking slows and stops. Summoning the last traces of her strength, she bore down. The pain was so great, so eternal, that for a moment, she was certain she was dying. Every essence of her being ached and cried. Time seemed frozen and stilled. Khutulun screamed and grasped, desperate to hold anything. Saruul takes her hand but even this sensation is faint, as if her spirit has already left her body. Only then did she cry; her child was still and quiet. They would never know life, she was certain of it.

 

Then it was over.

 

The apprentice reaches to take the silent newborn. The young girl begins to leave but the midwife slaps the younger woman's hand away. The infant seems to sleep, soft, helpless and limp in the midwife's arms, it's chest rigid and unmoving. The midwife cups her hand, slapping against the infant’s chest.

 

Saruul grabs her, pressing her hand tightly against Khutulun’s cheek, as if this would shield her from what was happening.

 

Khutulun lifts her head, her vision becoming  red at the effort. It is a strange thing to see. The infant appears robust with thick curls upon their head and a birdlike mouth which is painfully silent. Khutulun reaches for the newborn, her words clumsy as she begs Saruul, “Give them to me. I want them.” 

 

Turning, Saruul holds Khutulun’s face against her chest, blinding her. Beyond the darkness, Khutulun can hear the midwife is still at work. 

 

Then, like thunder from a quiet night sky, the newborn coughs and then screams. 

 

It was a most beautiful noise. As they cry, the piercing sound echoing through the ger as if announcing their arrival, Khutulun pushes Saruul away, admiring her newborn's wails. The infant’s cheeks become red and stiff, as they cackled and gasped. By instinct, Khutulun understood her child's cries. The baby was indignant at these new surroundings, this hot night they had been born in, and the loud midwives who attended to them. 

 

Khutulun's head grew heavy. She smelled cold metal and then saw nothing but darkness.

 

When she awoke, Khutulun feels her eyes searching. It is custom to keep the child with their mother for forty days after birth and, unsurprisingly, she sees Saruul and Maidar in the corner

 

“Let me see,” Khutulun says. Her throat is as dry as desert sand and her body aches with every movement but she holds out her arms, her hands shaking at the effort. 

 

“In a moment,” Saruul says, “Maidar is trying to feed her but she refuses to eat.”

 

She. A daughter, Khutulun thinks before she can help herself. She forces herself to sit up, her muscles shaking at the movement. “Give her to me,” Khutulun says. Saruul looks at her and Khutulun stutters, “I will try.”

 

“Are you certain?” Saruul asks, “It may be difficult for you.”

 

“Yes,” Khutulun says, suddenly desperate, “Let me try.”

 

Saruul nods and Maidar rises to settle the baby in Khutulun’s arms. 

 

Maidar shows Khutulun how to make the infant latch and the newborn begins to fed. The newborns grips Khutulun’s finger, her hold so strong that Khutulun finds herself gripping tightly in response. 

 

She is beautiful with skin the color of fresh milk and thick, soft black hair. When she is finished, the infant sighs, her thin brows furrowing as if she is displeased, and presses her tiny face against Khutulun’s chest, nuzzling the warm skin there. She falls asleep, to Khutulun's amazement. Khutulun cannot imagine such innocence, such complete trust. Khutulun holds the baby close. She will not accept such blind faith without earning it.

 

“Father wishes to see you,” Saruul says.

 

Khutulun nods, unable to take her eyes off the sleeping baby. She revels to the steady, even sound of the infant’s breathing, barely glancing up when her father arrives.

 

He is smiling, much to her relief. Khutulun finds herself shaking at the sight of him. He is unwelcome reminder of previous arrangements.

 

"Look at your sister, Saruul, Maidar," Kaidu says, "she is a fierce warrior."

 

“Indeed,” Saruul says, mouth pinched.

 

Lord Kaidu kneels, wrapping his arms around the child to take her. Khutulun resists, her hands clutching the infant almost reflexively. Her father sees this and pulls away. He stands, watching Khutulun, who avoids his gaze.

 

“Have you decided on a name?” Lord Kaidu asks Saruul.

 

Saruul is silent.

 

Lord Kaidu clears his throat, grinding his teeth, “What shall we call her? What name does her mother give her?”

 

Still, Saruul doesn’t speak. Khutulun can feel her sister’s eyes on her. 

 

Khutulun understands this moment. Now is the time to give the baby to Saruul and accept the weight of the vow she made to her father. 

 

Yet she cannot. She cannot bear the thought of giving the infant to another, not now or ever. The very idea make her throat tight and her eyes wet with tears. If she cannot make this choice, no other choice will ever matter.

 

“Gerel,” Khutulun says, “I wish to call my daughter Gerel.”

 

“Gerel?” Lord Kaidu says. His face is tense and unreadable.

 

“Yes,” Khutulun says. She waits, searching for any inkling of uncertainty in her heart. There are none. 

 

Her father leans away, his jaw tight. He snaps, “And what of - ”

 

Khutulun interrupts him. She recognizes the slip in decorum but she can’t bring herself to care, “I am still your daughter and I will fight by your side but I cannot stand by and hear her call another mother.”

 

Saruul turns away to conceal the tears in her eyes. Maidar seems to hide behind Khutulun. She barely sees either of her sisters in that moment however. Khutulun is only aware of the small hand tightly grasping her finger and her father's dark gaze upon her.

 

“See that you are,” Lord Kaidu says. He holds out his arms to take the infant from her again. This time she obliges, watching as her father analyzes the baby before he says directly to Khutulun, “Gerel is a fine name for my granddaughter.”

 

.

.

.

 

“I have never held a baby before,” Marco says. That much she could have known without being told. His arms are stiff and awkward. 

 

Khutulun bits her check to hid her thoughts. She reaches out to stroke Gerel’s hair, “She is beautiful, is she not?”

 

“More lovely than words can describe,” Marco says. He leans down to kiss the infant’s forehead. “Your father loves you little one. Of that I am certain. Never doubt his affections.”

 

This is a bold statement. Khutulun opens her mouth to tell him so and then closes it. She would never admit it but she has imagined Gerel in Byamba’s arms. He would be infatuated with their child just as Khutulun is.

 

“Tell him of her when you return to Cambulac,” Khutulun says. 

 

Marco looks at her with wide eyes. It is not all kindness of her part however. 

 

“I will,” Marco says, studying Gerel’s face solemnly, “I promise you, I will.”


	13. Chapter 13

Gerel is a calm, content baby. Yet the way Khutulun’s sisters fuss over her, however, would lead one to think Gerel is sickly and fussy. Between the four of them, they have twenty children, yet there always seems to be a sister hovering over Khutulun’s shoulder, correcting her, chastising her, and doubting her.

“Give her another blanket,” Panang snaps, thrusting a bit of cloth into Khutulun’s hands, “Do you want her to catch a chill?”

“Unwrap her!” Saruul says, mere minutes later, pulling fabric away from Gerel, “She will become too hot.”

“Give her rest. She doesn’t need to be awoken,” Maidar says, hushing Khutulun,“She will stop growing if you do not let her sleep.”

“Wake her up!” Beretude yelps, upon learning Gerel has been napping for several hours, “She must eat often or she will never grow!”

Another occurrence, one which is unfortunately not rare, is more than one sister breathing down her neck. “Do not let her eat so much. She will become sick,” Saruul says while Beretude interjects, “Let her drink as much as she likes. That is a sign she is healthy.”

They mean well. Khutulun knows this. In Gerel’s early days, she had been dependent on them for their assistance. Yet she comes to find herself grinding her teeth and clenching her fists whenever she sees one of them approach. 

Khutulun’s favorite time is in the morning. It is the only time she seems to be alone with her child. The moment born in those cold, grey hours become memories she cherishes long after they are gone. 

The ger is always quiet, a calm oasis from the world outside. Within the walls her brothers’ and cousins’ had so lovingly constructed for her to raise a family in, there are no plans for wars or treachery or betrayal. Gerel lays close to Khutulun on her sleeping furs, within arms reach should the little one need comforting or sustenance. For most of the night, Gerel is a mouth crying for milk or her mother’s hold. Occasionally, she is a warm lump with a chest that rises and falls in a steady breath which Khutulun can reach for when she needs reassurance. 

The mornings are a happy middle between the constant opinions of the day and the dark, primal nights. Gerel takes to sleeping well, mercifully. By her second month of life, she awakens only to feed. The rest of the night, she sleeps curled into herself, soft snores emanating from her gaping bird-like mouth. Then, each day, as dawn breaks in an orange glow that seeps into the ger, Gerel awakens, well-rested and in the most pleasant mood.

Winter comes early in the year of Gerel’s birth and each morning is colder than the last. Khutulun holds her baby close and buries their bodies in furs. Gerel likes the closeness. She squirms, pressing her tiny body until she can be no closer to her mother, and then tilting her head up to watch Khutulun with bright, inquisitive eyes. 

Often she will feed, her hands scratching against Khutulun’s chest until her mother presses a finger to each of Gerel’s tiny palms. Other times, she simply lays on her side, studying her mother with furrowed brow, as if she is attempting to commits Khutulun’s face to memory. Mostly, she prefers to lay on Khutulun’s chest, her eyes fighting to stay open but almost always failing. 

Gerel herself is worthy of marvel. She had entered the world, lifeless and fragile, but she grows, in short bursts and then seemingly all at once. She becomes a squirming, smiling, loud creature. She begins to turn, lift her head, and crawl in an instant. Khutulun begins to know what her cries mean, how she prefers things, and it becomes very easy and most difficult to imagine the child Gerel will become.

Khutulun commits these times to memory: the comforting weight of her daughter on her chest, the happy rhythm of Gerel’s heart against hers, the sweet knowing that this precious girl trusts her and loves her beyond measure. They become treasures, ones that she is certain she cannot keep.   
.  
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Gerel takes after her father in face and body. Even as an infant, she is big, her long form with its chubby limbs filling the arms of anyone who holds her. As she grew, she comes to have much softer features and a heavier, thicker body than those of her cousins. Yet in spite of her size, even to those who knew better, she appears docile and shy. 

But she is Khutulun's daughter in spirit, just as Marco Polo predicted. As a baby, she was pragmatic, smiling for everyone and crying only when necessary. Gerel did not suffer fools however. When she was six months old, Saruul's son Arslan attempted to steal a sweet from his younger cousin and without hesitation, Gerel grabbed Arslan's lower lip and yanked with such force she toppled over. Arslan cried, dropped the sweet, and not one of Saruul’s sons ever dared unsettle Gerel again. 

Then there were the the expressions she made and the whims she displayed, which could not be explained by her parentage. Khutulun could not understand the way Gerel’s smiled with only half of her mouth, nor the way she had a flair for dramatics, particularly when disciplined. These were uniquely her own traits, ones that Khutulun tooks much amusement in seeing. 

Khutulun loved Gerel, much to her own relief. She loved her happy brown eyes, her cackling laugh, her sociable disposition. It was easy to take joy in this child, even with all the whispering and smirks. 

It brought Khutulun great joy to watch her child grow but that joy was short lived. There is a nagging call which underlies all her thoughts and actions. Her spies still give her report. The court of the Khan is stirring. It is only a matter of time before she must return to her great task. 

.  
.  
.

It began with what seemed to be nothing more than a simple fever, burning skin under her mother’s palm that was not there before. It is an occurrence no one but Khutulun thought was cause for concern. 

“She is your first baby,” Beretude said, to brush off her younger sister’s concerns. 

“Boroo cried for days too when she was small,” Maidar assures her as well, “I was sick with fear myself but she recovered.”

Yet Khutulun is not convinced. Gerel cannot be soothed and her screams grow tenfold when she is laid down. The baby refuses to feed and her color and dispositions worsen with each passing moment. No one sees this save for Khutulun. She cannot shake away her fear, no matter how unfounded it seems.

Mere hours after the fever begins, Gerel’s cries stop and she becomes eerily quiet. She becomes limp in Khutulun’s arms. Only then do the healer take note. 

Gerel is taken away. The healer’s tent is crowded with shamans, herbalists, physicians, and more faces than she can note but Khutulun forces her way in, hovering to see what is happening. They burn plants, massage Gerel’s skin, pray, sacrifice animals, and sing spells to summon benevolent spirits but Gerel's eyes become unfocused and distant. 

Finally a medicine woman pushes through, pressing a round object into Gerel's mouth so forcefully the baby gags and becomes sick. The woman coerces Gerel into becoming sick again and again. It hurts Khutulun to watch but with each treatment, Gerel seems change before her very eyes. Instead of lying listless in the woman’s arms, she begins to cry and fight. 

The medicine woman tells Khutulun her suspicions later, in a low voice that cannot be heard by unwanted ears. Yet by the next morning, the news has spread through the city: Kaidu’s granddaughter was poisoned. 

Gerel recovers but Khutulun does not let the girl out of her sight. She remains in the healer’s tent with her child, her mind set. Gerel seems to know her intent and clings to her tightly, as if she fears Khutulun is already gone. 

Khutulun remembers Gerel, cold and lifeless in the midwives’ arms. Gerel returns to her normal self. Her tiny feet kick against Khutulun throughout the night as sleep eludes them both. Khutulun watches Gerel recover but her memories haunt her. 

As soon as she is able, Khutulun carries her daughter to Lord Kaidu’s ger. Her father takes the still weak child in his arms, holding her close. Gerel whimpers, reaching for Khutulun who has begun to pace.

“They did this to her,” Khutulun says. The words fill her with such fury, she sees Cambulac burning to ash and nearly moves to make such reality. “She is their blood and they did this to her.”

Lord Kaidu strokes Gerel’s hair. He does not argue with Khutulun.

When he thinks she cannot see, he smiles. She ignores this and her own nagging guilt at the sight of it. The memory of Gerel’s birth still haunts Khutulun. Her throat tightens at the thought of her baby, harmed for the sins of her bloodlines. Khutulun had been powerless then. Now, she can see the threat before her. She can act. 

“If we wait, they can attack us, whenever and however they choose. We will be at a disadvantage,” Khutulun says, “The best way to protect ourselves is to move to attack before they can prepare or plan.”

This is for Gerel, she thinks. Her child will not live in a world where men can and will strike down an innocent child if the whim arises.

“I will not stay here, waiting for them to end us,” Khutulun says, “It is time for war.”

Then, her father says the words which she had waited years to hear, “Go. You have my full blessing.”

.  
.  
.

Gerel's knees buckle but she does not fall. She leans forward, her hands reaching, and she stumbles towards her uncle Orus’ outstretched arms. After several steps, she begins to trip over her own feet, losing more balance with each time, before being brought to her knees, and landing on her face.

She falls slowly, more gradually than she has in the past weeks. 

Orus chuckles and pulls her to stand. His niece looks at him, dazed by her fall. “Like a tiny drunkard. When you return, she will run to you.”

“Do you think she will miss me?” Khutulun asks. 

Around them, Karakorum hums with activity. Gerel stands, gripping her uncle’s shoulders, watching the mess of yelling, cursing, and commanding. Wagons are loaded with supplies and weapons, animals are prepared for the long journey, and soldiers ready for war. Orus gently touches his niece’s soft belly but Gerel does not look away. She stares, eyes wide and mouth agape, unmistakably entranced despite her uncle's reassurance.

“Of course,” Orus says, “She will know you go for her. I will tell her.”

Khutulun’s throat is tight with guilt again. She goes to create a world which is safe for her child. Not for her father and certainly not for herself, she tries to think.

“She is too young to know where I am. She understands only that I am absent,” Khutulun says.

“Then we will be with the supplies, only one day ride behind you,” Orus says, making faces at his niece. He turns her, pushing her gently towards her mother, “Give your mother a kiss, little one.”

Gerel sinks to the ground immediately, her hands grabbing for the smooth rocks amongst the mud. Orus attempts to make her walk again but her legs remain limp.

“Stubborn. Very much your mother's daughter,” Orus says, grinning at Khutulun. He attempts to wrangle a rock away as Gerel begins to put one in her mouth and she screeches, indignant and painfully loud. Orus winces and leaves her to gnaw on the pebble, “A true woman of our house.”

Khutulun rolls her eyes and walks over to her brother and daughter. Gerel drops her stones and crawls into Khutulun's open arms.

“Do you like it?” Khutulun asks as Gerel touches the design on her amour, “Perhaps you will wear it one day and come with me as I ride off.”

“You still have that old, broken helmet?” Orus says, “It has the same design as your new one. Leave the old here. She will see it everyday and recognize you when you return.”

Gerel begins to climb onto her mother's shoulders but Khutulun keeps her brother's words in mind. The next day she rides out with her father, long before the sun rises. She leave behind her helmet to rest over Gerel's head as she sleeps, a silent reminder that her mother would guard her from all harm.

.  
.  
.

Their first opponent, the first of many, is Ghiyas-ud-din Baraq, a grandson of Genghis Khan who has been instructed by Lord Kublai to take the throne upon which Lord Kaidu sits. 

Khutulun leads the forces that go to push Baraq back. On the great open plains, against an army which vastly outnumbers her own, she fights valiantly but still, she and her men see their first defeat. It is not a matter of strategy for Khutulun knows the land and her men and how to use them to the best of advantage, nor is it an issue of force for what her men lack in number, they make up for in ruthlessness. They are simply bested. 

Her father is not there when Khutulun rides back to him to report her defeat. She hears from a servant that he has gone to rally more troops. Khutulun bites her tongue at this. One defeat, and her father has already run to remedy her failures. 

Weeks pass without word. Khutulun spends her days, sharpening her weapons and preparing her armor for battle. She tries not to remember that she has failed, again, and that she may never recover from this mistake.

Finally Kaidu returns, along with ten thousand men, from the grasslands and Karakorum. Lord Kaidu is brisk with her when he sees his daughter, telling her simply, “This was not a task you were apt for. It is my own fault.”

It is an insult, given her accomplishments both on the battlefield as a soldier and as a commander but she must allow it. Kaidu leads the second assault on Baraq and Khutulun rides as a mere soldier. 

Her father is so certain of victory that he makes few plans for the coming assault. Khutulun is not so certain of herself. She sends spies who warn her of their obvious disadvantages. 

“They lay a trap for us,” Khutulun warns her father. 

But her father merely shrugs, “We have nothing to worry for.”

Still, Khutulun is uncertain. She touches her father’s arm and says, “Let me take my men and - ”

“You will do as you are told,” Lord Kaidu snaps before yanking his arm away from her. 

So Khutulun holds her tongue. And again, this time by the banks of the Jaxartes River, they see defeat. The land, which had seemed so right to their purpose, is used against them. Lord Kaidu nearly falls during the assault. 

Khutulun orders their retreat. As her father lays in the healer’s tent, she goes to find new support. Another grandson of the great Genghis, Mongke-Temur, has also turned on Kublai. Khutulun rides to his camp. 

At first, Mongke-Temur refuses to see her. “She is a woman,” Khutulun hears him say to his servants, “I do not deal with those we are beneath me.”

Khutulun hears this but does not allow the words to trouble her. She lets herself into his tent, pushing her way past protesting servants, and stands before her relative, back straight and proud despite her defeats and offers him what he cannot refuse, even from a woman. “Half the lands we conquer will be yours.”

Mongke-Temur smirks but the thought of such vast holdings being his own makes him forget his prejudice. He gives three tumens to their cause, thirty thousand soldiers to bolster their force. Khutulun leads them back to her father, who sees the soldiers his daughter brought to him, with an old twinkle in his eyes that Khutulun has not seen in many months. 

This time, Khutulun leads the attack, and finally, in the shadow of the city of Khujand, she takes her first victory. While her father savors his new holdings, Khutulun quietly excuses herself. It has been several weeks since she has seen her child.

.  
.  
.

Her brother and daughter wait for her a tavern, hidden away in the hills, and before she can even arrive there, her spies have sent word. Her father’s men lay waste to their new lands and her father allows it, no doubt thinking it is payment for the shame of their recent defeats. 

The thought of the great lands she just won being ravaged fills Khutulun’s mouth with bile but she does not allow it to consume her. Her peace is temporary, so she takes care to savor every moment of it. Such matters are for the morning. The tavern is garish and filthy but she can barely bring herself to care. When she enters, she sees only her curious girl, more child than baby, with curls that are even more unmanageable than she remembers and a sweet happy face that recognizes her mother immediately. Just as Orus promised, Gerel runs into her mother’s arms.

Gerel sleeps that night next to Khutulun, her arms tight around her mother’s neck. Orus slumbers too, sprawled across a soft mat by the fireplace. Only Khutulun lays awake, memorizing the new curves of Gerel’s cheeks. It may be months, years before she sees her again. The night is long but the hours are short and suddenly dawn is on the horizon. 

For this reason, she is awake when she hears a man, down below her window in the courtyard, talking in a foreign tongue, one that seems to be from another lifetime. It cannot be true, she thinks, and yet she is drawn to pull away from Gerel, to go look out the window. There, despite all reason, is Marco Polo. 

She could call to him but she does not. Instead she watches him, marveling at the impossibility of it all. He still belongs to Kublai Khan, she notes upon seeing the familiar sign upon the trunks he carries. Marco Polo survives in the court of the Khan of Khans, she realizes.

Polo calls to someone in the shadows of the courtyard. Only then, does she see who keeps his company. 

He looks worn, thin too, so thin she wonders if he has been starved. She is filled with fury at the sight of him but when she sees how broken he looks, she finds herself pausing. Did he do this to himself? She watches as he reaches for something which Polo hands to him and sees marks on his wrist which form the distinct pattern of chain link. 

Polo had told her that Byamba had had no choice but to deny her and their daughter. She begins to wonder but forces herself to stop. Whatever love she may have had for him is gone. It must be done with if she is to complete her great task, if she to create a future for her daughter free from the burden he placed on her. 

And yet there is a moment, when Byamba turns, just so, that she notices how much their child takes after him and Khutulun cannot help but remember happy times and the future she had imagined for them. As if feeling her eyes on him, Byamba looks up. Khutulun pulls away from the window, going to stand by the bed where Gerel still sleeps, unperturbed by what goes on below in the courtyard. 

Khutulun watches Gerel slumber, soothed by her gentle breath and soft snores. Khutulun goes to look down into the courtyard again but to her relief, this time it is empty.

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.

For the next year, Baraq menaces the eastern lands, robbing the rich cities there that are fed by the silk road, to fund another campaign against them. This causes Lord Kaidu much distress. He had, of course, allowed his own men to plunder many cities but only within reason. 

“Baraq is an animal,” Khutulun insists, knowing well that she speaks in accordance with her father’s thoughts, “He will ruin our trade routes and destroy our magnificent cities with no regard.”

There is more, of course. The cities in question, which include the great land of Bukhara, are centers of great wealth and whomever holds these seats of power, holds the vast areas around them as well. 

“What do you suggest we do?” Lord Kaidu asks her. 

She is shocked by this. For many months, she had given her father advice but very rarely had it been solicited. They rarely spoke of Gerel and it had been months since either she or her father saw the girl but Lord Kaidu was not one to forget the loss of face. It pleases Khutulun very much, to be able to resume her place as her father’s favored advisor. 

“We should find peace with Baraq,” Khutulun says, “If it is land he wants, give him land. Give him the holdings we gained when we aligned ourselves with Mongke-Temur.”

“You want to give him back what we took from him?” Kaidu asks, clearly questioning his decision to allow her back into his trust.

“Yes,” Khutulun says. He immediately turns away but she moves to face him, “He is a fool father. Do this now. He will show us weakness, soon enough, and when he does, we will crush him.”

“Should I trust your judgement of men?” Lord Kaidu says, more to himself than her. 

“You know that you can,” Khutulun says, barely managing to hold her tongue, “I am right, father.” Then she excuses herself. 

.  
.  
.

It is nearly a year and a half before Baraq accepts their call for a peace treaty. Khutulun’s brothers and cousins had much to say about this and they prefer to voice their grievances to her rather than their father. Khutulun cannot bring herself to care though. Her father has called his children to attend a feast, to show their support for the treaty he makes with Baraq.

By then, Gerel is a tall four year old, who clings to Orus as Khutulun approaches and watches her mother with cautious eyes. Only with chiding does she allow Khutulun to take the crushed flowers that she clutches in her chubby fist, a gift which Khutulun’s sisters had instructed Gerel to present to her mother.

Khutulun smiles down at her and immediately, Gerel runs to press her face into Orus’ back. Orus sips from a cup of airag, reaching to tug at one of Gerel’s braids, “Why are you being shy? You talked endlessly about seeing your mother and now you hid?” 

Gerel turns to peek at Khutulun, shrugs, and then buries her face into Orus’ side again. 

“She is not usually like this,” Orus tells Khutulun, “She drives me mad with all her talking.”

“Is this true?” Khutulun asks, “Are you talkative?”

“Yes,” Gerel says, her voice muffled by her uncle’s robe. 

Orus wrangles Gerel’s hand away from his robe and pulls her until she is standing before him, facing her mother, “Tell her about all of your friends.”

“Ah,” Khutulun says, leaning onto her palm, “You are popular? Who is your best friend?”

Gerel goes limp in Orus’ arms. She makes a face at her uncle but finally says, “Arslan.”

“Arslan?” Khutulun exclaims, “Your cousin Arslan? Saruul’s son?”

“Yes,” Gerel says. She turns and pulls at the cup in Orus’ hand until she can take a sip from it. Orus pulls the cup away but not before Gerel swallows a bit of airag. She then rolls her eyes back and begins to stumbles about. 

“She’s a silly girl,” Orus says, avoiding his sister’s eyes, “She is particularly fond of your European admirer.

“I’m sure,” Khutulun says. Gerel crawls on the floor, groaning and pretending to retch. 

“He brings her gifts,” Orus says. “A massive glass horse, a herd of goats, those sour dry curd thing that are good for your teeth. Things a four years old would enjoy, obviously.”

“That is the Latin I remember,” Khutulun says with a sigh. She reaches out to touch Gerel but the girl rolls away, curling up into herself to hide from Khutulun again. 

Orus watches this. “Show her your helmet, sister.”

Khutulun stands, walking to take her helmet from the crate where she keeps her armor. Gerel lies on the ground, watching Khutulun. When she sees the helmet, which is identical to the one which hangs over her bed, Gerel sits up. 

“That’s the face of the one that protects me,” Gerel says, reaching out to touch the familiar features. “Are you the one? The one that looks after me?”

“I am,” Khutulun says. She smiles to herself at the sight of Gerel’s reverence. Gently, Khutulun takes the helmet from Gerel and puts it away. When she turns to face Gerel again, the girl is still watching her. “Grandfather awaits us. Shall we go?”

Gerel nods, pulling herself to her feet before reaching to take Khutulun’s hand. 

Her father’s banquet has begun by the time they arrive. Lord Kaidu had ordered his servants to slaughter over a dozen cows and boil enough nermel to satisfy a thousand men. Khutulun’s father is surrounded by several of his grandchildren but when Lord Kaidu sees Gerel, he motions for her to come and sit by his side. 

Khutulun watches as her father leans close to talk to Gerel, who grins at the attention. Someone bumps into her and Khutulun turns to see that it is Baraq, who has moved away from his party. 

“Lady Khutulun,” Baraq says, nodding his head. 

“Lord Baraq,” she says, bowing slightly. 

He studies her closely. She looks down, her face a mask of meekness. He goes to sit with his men without sparing her a second glance. 

Khutulun watches him for a moment longer. Her father is patient but she is not. Mongke-Temur took what remained of their new land. Baraq thinks he has humiliated them.

She knows better though. Khutulun has plans for Baraq. She will put power back where it belongs. For now, she must pretend to placate for him. She goes to sit with Orus, helping herself to a plate of meat, before turning her gaze back to her daughter, who still holds her father’s attention. 

Gerel leans against Lord Kaidu, her long fingers gently massaging warm oil onto her grandfather's aching knuckles. Such is usually a task for a servant but Khutulun does not mind. In spite of his inflamed joints, Kaidu has a sleepy smile on his lips. The rigors of the past several months are far from his mind. He has been at ease since Gerel began her ministrations.

Fondly, Khutulun remembers when she herself had been Gerel's age, a young interloper clinging to her father's side as she listened to the politics around him.

"Who is that familiar child? Where have I seen her before?" Baraq asks, his voice loud from the jugs of airag he had claimed for himself. He lounges, much too easily for Khutulun’s taste.

Khutulun grinds her teeth, looking pointedly at her father. Lord Kaidu does not appear to have noticed Baraq's words. 

"She is my child," Khutulun says, indicating towards Gerel with a curt nod of her head. She lets her pride seep into her words.

"Ah yes. I do recall that scandal," Baraq says, examining Gerel. Khutulun's daughter appears calm, her hands still tenderly working on her grandfather's hands. Khutulun can see, however, how her daughter leans back, closer, and how her face softens.

"General Byamba nearly lost his head over that," Baraq says. Old resentment stirs in Khutulun, up from the depths where she had tried so forcefully to hide it, and Khutulun disagrees with the recollection. Mouth tight, she touches the handle of her sword, her eyes wearing her silent threat.

Baraq's eyes illuminate. Still able to vividly recall their army's defeat at the man's hands, Khutulun rises, widening her chest, ready to respond to any threat he may unwisely choose to present. New allies can always be found but esteem is easily irreparably tarnished.

"She has her father's eyes." Baraq says. Then, knowing well that he can push no further without retribution, he settles. Khutulun curses him. She had hoped he would give her reason to indulge her lesser urges.

"Who is General Byamba?" Gerel asks.

Someone - perhaps her father, perhaps one of her brothers who sit near Lord Kaidu, or perhaps Khutulun herself - hushs Gerel and the young girl has the sense not to push further.

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.

That summer, at prompting of Lord Kaidu, Baraq leads his armies into Persia, striking against Lord Kublai’s holdings in the land. 

It seems like it will be a quick, fruitful campaign. Hulagu Khan,the brother of the Kublai who held true power in Persia is a dying old man, a shadow of the the general who once conquered much of Western Asia. To all who hear of Lord Kaidu’s support, it seems like a benign display. 

Khutulun knows better though. Hulagu Khan passes in the spring of Baraq’s campaign. In his stead, his son Abaqa takes power. Abaqa is a young man, inexperienced in war and governance. Baraq thinks there will be a lapse in power, something that can be taken advantage of. 

Khutulun has known Abaqa since they were children. He is not a simple boy. The generals who lead his father’s armies, the same who built such a grand empire, will most likely still be tasked with defense of the Abaqa’s empire.

Her prediction is true, much to their benefit. Baraq falls in battle outside the city of Herat. Lord Kaidu personally prepares and finances his former ally’s funeral. Both he and Khutulun take the habit of loudly mourning Baraq’s passing, particularly while in public. 

The sons of Baraq resist Lord Kaidu’s rule but they are easily removed. To secure peace, Baraq’s young son, Duwa is placed as Lord Kaidu’s second in power, but it is a title in name only. 

Their lands expanded tenfold in the span of days. Khutulun is invigorated by the new power but it is not long before she yearns for more. She begins to set her sights on the lands in western China, a move of great purpose.


	14. Chapter 14

The days and the nights begin to blur together but that night she felt a great clarity, as if the hours were meant for higher purposes. It was a warm summer night and the plains outside of Karakorum were still. Her daughter stood, surrounded by her cousins. Khutulun sat with her sisters. She could barely distinguish between her nieces and nephews and her own child. The thought is comforting. 

Gerel is eight years old, tall, spirited, and mischievous. She spends all her time with her cousin Arslan, riding horses and making up stories and constantly begging for food from her aunts. 

She is a good child, polite and kind, for the most part. Whether this was her brother’s doing or some mystery of fate, Khutulun cannot say. She is merely grateful. 

Khutulun’s sisters were not talkative, almost unnervingly so. They knew, Khutulun realized. 

Saruul may have told them. Her oldest sister had teased her when she had first seen Khutulun. “After all the years you teased me for being traded to our father’s best general like a handful of coins and you were willing to marry for land, wealth, and a better armed force?”

There was something scathing in Saruul’s tone. Khutulun had not been fazed by it. Such was the nature of having a sister. They were capable of being both unrelentingly cruel and impossibly forgiving. 

There was more, underneath the teasing. What had happened to the girl who was disgusted by the idea of being given to a man? The one who had broken bones and taken painful bruises and scrapes to avoid such a fate? Where was the girl who had wanted to be loved and treasured and had only relented to being wed when she was certain she had found a man who would give her that?

Khutulun had snapped at Saruul though, to both of their surprise. “Those are not matters for you to be concerned about.”

Saruul had not spoken on Khutulun’s outburst or the failed arrangements again. 

Khutulun had not wanted anyone to know but her life was not her own and perhaps it had never been. It was something for people to take for their own amusement and dissect and mold into their own fantasy. She had always known this on some level. Only now, however, did she care.

She was being foolish, of course. No one’s opinion on the subject mattered but her own and she had decided not to burden herself. It had only been a marriage proposal. 

A union, sanctioned by her own father, that would have expanded their power and holdings substantially, but to Khutulun, it would have been a bond in name only and little more. She had no strong feelings towards her intended Ghazan. He was eleven years younger, intelligent but unhealthy and not very handsome. She would not have even been his first wife and she highly doubted they would have had children together if it had come to that. 

It hadn’t come to that. The negotiations had been stopped, very abruptly, with only single piece of information. Ghazan had been very disconcerted to find she had a child but no overly repulsed by the idea. He had even been willing to overlook this fact until he learned who her father was. 

Upon seeing the bargain was failing, Khutulun’s idiot brother Chabar had offered to give Ghazan Gerel’s hand in marriage. 

“The girl does not know her father. My own sister barely knows the father,” Chabar had said, his hand heavy with the gold rings he insisted on wearing, “When she is old enough, she will swear loyalty to you and no other. You will have sons as tall as oak trees and just as strong. They will lay claim to two powerful bloodlines.”

Khutulun had turned the talks to an alliance without a marriage but only after Kaidu had been silent for too long. She could not believe her father wouldn’t put down such an idea. How could he have let his own son talk about Khutulun or his favored grandchild like that?

Yet Lord Kaidu had said nothing in his daughter’s or that of her child’s defense. He had been silent, only opening his mouth, long after the discussion, to ask Khutulun if she would have truly been willing to marry Ghazan for him. When she had said she would, his eyes had filled with a weariness that Khutulun was surprised to find mimicked her own, the hidden tiredness she refused to acknowledge.

She had felt so empty at the thought of being Ghazan’s wife but she would have married him for their cause. Deep down, she was shocked at her own devotion. Yet had she not given so much for this purpose? Had she not given her heart, her mind, and her blood? Why would he be appalled by the thought of giving her life and her body too?

One of Khutulun’s sisters hands her something to drink. She doesn’t even look to see what it is. It is bitter and makes her thoughts dull but she finishes it and asks for another. She thinks of the steppe, her freedom. When this was over, all of this, she would have the only thing she had ever truly wanted: choice. She could be whomever she wished to be, be remembered by whatever she decided to do, and nothing could be done to stop her then. 

But who was it she would become, when she had reached this unidentifiable destination? Did she even know? Would it even matter?

Khutulun finishes her drink again, her mind beginning to wander, until she can’t be bothered by her own ideas. It would end and then she would know, she thinks. Then she quickly forgets the statement.

Gerel moves away from her cousins, beckoned by her grandfather. Lord Kaidu allows the girl to sit at his feet, where he can stroke her hair. Her child looks like an obedient pet but Khutulun bites her tongue and refuses the thought.

Her daughter carries a bow now and she shows it to Lord Kaidu. When Maidar first gave her the thing, Gerel was terrible with it, more likely to hurt herself then hit a target. Gerel had been determined though. Khutulun has seen devotion in the girl’s wounded hands and in the wooden posts by their ger which are riddled with holes. 

Lord Kaidu is pointing to the sky, towards Alcor and Mizar, the paired stars. To those with poor sight, they appear as one large orb but to those with a sharp gaze, they are distinct. Those who saw two separate stars had once been deemed worthy of being archers in Genghis Khan’s army. Lord Kaidu leans close, talking only to Gerel. Can she see them? Can the heavens dub her a exceptional archer?

And her eyes brighten because she does, she does see this great symbol, and the fate which it carries.

His loving gaze is priceless, intoxicating, full of untapped possibilities. The girl whom Khutulun had once been would have given anything to have it. That gaze had created the woman she had become.

“Look away,” Khutulun wants to say but doesn’t. The words would not just be for the girl but for herself, and they are almost too unbearable to contemplate.

She watches instead. The next day, Gerel shows Lord Kaidu her skills with the bow. Her persistent efforts have lead to impressive skills. He is most pleased with her and Khutulun can barely stand it.

.  
.  
.

Her tongue is so dry, she wonders if her mouth is full of sand. She is thirsty and hungry, almost to the point of exhaustion. There is nothing she wants more than a meal and a cool bed so she will have this finished quickly. Her father had insisted on her presence. She would be the one to kill Lord Kublai’s general, as an emissary for Lord Kaidu.

One of their prisoners is looking at her. She had not recognized him at first but when she had, she had considered doing away with this whole spectacle. He had been a brutal adversary, then and now, but he did not deserve this,to die like an animal for another man's pride.

To her own disgust, she never spoke. The executions began and she watched, silent, guilty.   
Her oldest commander, General Tomobaatar cried out as his sword dropped. It was only for a moment and it was too indistinct to name but Khutulun heard. Three of his sons, the oldest no more than eighteen years old, had died on the battlefield. 

Her friend Naran cried out too as he executed one of Kublai Khan’s allies, a chief from the north who had likely never seen battle before. Naran was not a soldier either. He had fought many battles but Khutulun could see he had no love for fighting He stood as a representative of his father, one of their oldest archers Ganzorig, who had lost an arm and bled to death on the battlefield. 

She had tried to speak on the matter with her father but he request for mercy had gone unheard. 

“Bring me his head,” Lord Kaidu had said. The way he spoke, it had seemed that he hadn’t heard her plea, as if she hadn’t spoken at all. Then he had looked at her, his eyes cold and empty, and she had known her request would not even be considered. 

Finally, the time comes for Khutulun to step forward. General Qadan, the leader of one of Kublai’s most vicious tumens. 

She had known him as a rival when they were children. She still remembered the sting of dust in her eyes, the intensity of his face as he realized she was fiercer than she looked, and the nod which marked her as a worthy foe. 

Khutulun kept silent, biting her cheek so hard, she tasted blood. For one brief moment, she couldn’t hid in her denial. In her captive’s eyes, she saw the girl who had died on the battlefield, the child who yearned for freedom from title who had been thrown to the side by a woman whose need for status had overwhelmed. That girl would have been repulsed by this.

Gerel’s fate relied on this beneficence. Her own fate, she his daughter, relied on his whims. The sword drops.

She goes to the ger. It is dark there, cool and quiet. She shrugs off her armor, sighing when she feels the sweet fresh air on her burning, aching body. The skin where she ties her metal plates to herself are thickened and scarred but today the mix of sweat and heat has cut open her skin again. 

Khutulun goes for a drink. She rarely has water anymore. Airag is what she requires or something similar to dull the pain. Too many battles, too much solitude, so little resolution of what she had thought would be a military campaign and nothing more. She has her drink and then another. 

She pauses when she has finished her second cup. Already she is filled with warmth and silence but she is still keenly aware of her bare skin and bleeding flesh. There is a stream nearby where her soldiers bathe. 

She makes no move to go to the task of cleaning herself. There is something she wants, more than sustenance or sleep or any bodily relief. 

The mountains around their camp are so similar to the ones she had taken Byamba to. Every night she was reminded of him. It was not anger or sadness that fill her. Even after all these years, she aches at the memory of his touch, his hands gripping her hands, his fingers buried in her hair, his body pressed so close to her own. She awoke from her dreams with her lips red and swollen and her skin hot from the images which had filled her head. 

And his voice. She missed his words and the low tone which he reserved for her and the wisdom it has so easily carried.

She missed him, no matter how much she tried not to. 

He would understand what it felt like to be used by one’s father too.

Khutulun had given herself to her father’s cause, was obedient to his every demand, his perfect daughter. She was the one he trusted and confided in. That was what she had always wanted. Had she not always wished for him to see her as clever and brave and loyal? He did. She should be pleased. 

He praised her. He held her above all others. Did he not? Khutulun nods, with only herself to see the gesture. Her limbs are raw. Her muscle ache. She is hungry, tired, and alone. She was her father’s favorite.

It was the truth. Yet, alone and broken in her ger, she could barely remember.   
.  
.  
.

The winter after Gerel turns twelve, Lord Kaidu orders his army to return to Karakorum. The land in the west is tormented by snowstorms and they lose many men even with retreat. Lord Kaidu is furious. Withdrawal was Khutulun’s idea and she devotes herself to more plans, ones which will soothe her father’s ire.

Yet, somehow, nothing she says is met with any degree of approval. She suggests they take Lord Kublai’s forts in China to gain access to the silk road and he accuses her of being greedy. She ponders aloud if they might follow the Khan’s weakened forces into Burma and take the country for themselves and he calls her a fool for thinking they would wanting to be involved in such a mess of a government. She makes plans for a navy to capture Japan and he chastises her, loudly, and wonders whether she understands what such an undertaking would involve. 

It is the very nature of their relationship that they sometimes disagree but this is more. She begins to fear her time in the sun is finished. She does not know who she would be if she lost her status and power.

To distract herself she begins to insert herself in more mundane tasks. She oversees preparation for festivals, teaches her nephew Arslan and Gerel how to swim, and makes plans to have another, more suitable ger built for herself and her daughter,. It is oddly soothing to make a life for herself in her own city even if such preparations are temporary. She even begins assisting the ministers and officers with tariffs and the administration of justice. Such things are matters she will one day attend to, she tells herself, and it is best to learn now.

The work becomes routine for her and soon thereafter it becomes dull. For this reason, when Gerel runs through the ger one cold winter morning, her boots soaked from the snow outside, it is easy for Khutulun to toss her work aside. 

“What are you doing child?” Khutulun asks, leaning back on her hands. Her joint crack loudly as she moves. She is sore from sitting but there are still many tasks before her. 

“Sokhor told Arslan that he could make an arrow fly 150 yards and Arslan told Sokhor that I could make a arrow fly twice that,” Gerel says. She tosses off her wet coat and begins digging through a chest, “Now I have to honor Arslan’s promise.”

“Can you make good on that promise?” Khutulun asks. “Or will I have to come and break up this gathering to help you save face?”

Gerel stands sharply, a deep glare set on her face until she sees Khutulun’s grin. Gerel puffs her cheeks, “I can easily hit a target that is 300 yards away from me. I made a wager with Sokhor for his warhorse. You may pet the beast when she is mine.”

“What need do you have for a warhorse?” Khutulun asks. The moment she speaks, she knows the answer. Her daughter is taller than her now but Khutulun cannot look upon her without thinking of the infant who used to sleep in her arms. The thought is ridiculous though. Gerel wears training weights, spares with her cousins, and knows the mechanisms of battle. Of course this day was coming.

“Grandfather says I will march with you when you go back on the warpath,” Gerel says. She sees Khutulun’s expression and adds, “It will not be my first time with soldiers. Uncle Khashi took me with him when he went to the Ob River two years ago and before that Uncle Orus and I gave support to the troops in the Altai Mountains so I saw many battles. I am ready. I will make our house proud.”

Something else invades Khutulun’s mind, a hollowness that is so cold she can barely stand it but she doesn’t acknowledge it. Selfishly, she takes pleasure in the thought of Gerel being with her. This is the emotions she allows to consume her.

“You will,” Khutulun replies, deeply satisfied when she sees Gerel grins at her statement, “Even if you don’t win that horse, I will make sure you have a good steed.”

“I will get that horse. She is beautiful, mother. Golden brown, muscles like a Iranian steel, and when she gallops, you feel like the entire earth is shaking.” Gerel says, her voice sounding so familiar Khutulun has to smile. 

“Then go!” Khutulun says, “Bring back that horse and I will have the leathersmith make you a beautiful saddle for our journey.”

“I must find my ring,” Gerel says, turning to sift through her clothes. “Have you seen it? It’s big, much too big for me, but I wear it because it prevents me from gripping the bow too tightly. I never miss when I use it.”

“It was much too disorganized in this ger this morning so I pushed many things into the corner. Look there. It is mostly your uncle’s things but I saw one or two of your trinkets,” Khutulun replied, flexing her fingers. “Who gave you a ring that was much too big? Was it Orus?”

“No, my merchant friend gave it to me,” Gerel said, “Marco Polo. He said he was your friend too.”

Khutulun bits her cheek. She admits, “I am very fond of him.”

“He is a nice man,” Gerel agrees, “Very silly though. When he was last here, he gave Arslan and I rides on his back. I think we hurt him but he did not complain.”

“That is indeed our Latin friend,” Khutulun says with a chuckle. 

Gerel pulls a small leather from a pile of clothes. She waves it above her head with a smug expression before opening the bag and putting on the ring. 

“Go. Embarrass your friend.” Khutulun says.

Gerel winks at her, rushing to leave. On a whim, Khutulun grabs her hand as she pass. She resists but Khutulun pulls her into her lap. Gerel lands heavily into her mother’s embrace, dazed by the sudden gesture.

She fills Khutulun’s arms, solid and strong in her mother’s hold, nothing like the newborn who had struggled to draw breath, or the infant who was sick from the ill will of dubious forces. This is what Khutulun had always wanted. She had done this, all of this, for this girl. It had been worth it to see the presence Gerel had become.

“I wouldn't mind, if you miss,” Khutulun says.

“Thank you for your confidence in my abilities,” Gerel mumbles, fidgeting. She is much too big to hold anymore.

“You are more than enough to me, just as you are,” Khutulun says. The words are strange and awkward on her tongue. Lord Kaidu had said such things to Khutulun, when she was younger. Darkly, Khutulun thinks she means what she says. 

Gerel freezes in her mother's arms. The corner of her mouth peaks and she leans to kiss Khutulun’s cheek. 

Khutulun holds the girl tightly, for a few moments more before releasing her. Gerel stands, straightening her coat, her cheeks red. 

“To my task,” Gerel mumbles.

Her daughter’s boot catches on Khutulun’s tunic and when the girl leans down to free herself, Khutulun has a good look at the bow ring on Gerel’s hand.

She had seen it before.

“Where did Polo get that?” Khutulun asks, her voice sharp.

“I don't know,” Gerel says, much too quick to be innocent.

Khutulun considers taking the ring away. If anyone were to recognize it, rumors could spread. Enemies should not have gifts from their enemies, no matter the intent behind such gifts.

Yet she sees Gerel gripping the guilty object, trying to hide it away, and Khutulun cannot bring herself to take it. 

Had Byamba given it to Polo for her? Did he think of Gerel often enough to imagine she might like such a thing? Had Polo told her of its significance, that it had been given to him by his mother and he cherished it?

“Do not flaunt it,” Khutulun tells her.

“I wouldn't,” Gerel says. She sighs happily and Khutulun's stomach ached with guilt.

Gerel begins to leave again but she pauses. She turns and says to Khutulun, “Polo said that the general loves us, that he only can’t be with us because to do so would be certain death for us.”

Khutulun does not respond. Such thinking could be her undoing. 

Gerel waits, as if she wants to say more but when Khutulun turns back to her work, she does not linger further.

Later, Gerel rides the beautiful horse about but she is humble, waving away anyone who speaks too much of her skill. She does not keep the animal, choosing to return it soon thereafter to its heartbroken owner. That summer, she takes another horse with her to the warpath, a smaller, lighter beast from her grandfather's herd. “More steady when he runs. Better for an archer,” she tells everyone.

She is kind. Khutulun prays such gentle emotions are not to her disadvantages as they had been for others before her.


	15. Chapter 15

The helmet is dented and caked in mud but it is still easily recognizable. It had been wrapped in an unassuming sack. Saruul had put it calmly on the table between them but the look she gave her sister as Khutulun studied the object was accusatory.

 

“How did you come by this?” Khutulun asks.

 

“I found it on my child’s body,” Saruul says.

 

The sound of her sister’s voice forces Khutulun’s eyes to the floor. Hundreds had died in the fort that day. Khutulun had been so grateful when she had heard Gerel had survived but that relief had turned so quickly to guilt. Arslan, her sister’s youngest son, a boy who was not yet seventeen, had not been so fortunate.

 

“No,” Saruul says, “You look at it. See it.”

 

“Why?” Khutulun asks, suddenly furious. She had left Gerel’s bedside for this? “I know it is the same helmet I left to watch over Gerel when she was small. What do you want me to do with that fact?”

 

“Think, just for a moment,” Saruul says, “You were there when they brought my son to me. You saw what they did to him.”

 

Khutulun had seen, even though she had tried to force herself to forget. Her nephew, a boy who would smile and still look like the baby she had once so fondly cradled, had been almost unrecognizable. The healers had said he had broken nearly every bone in his body. Khutulun had never seen battlewound so severe.

 

“What happened to you, no one should have to endure, but it was nothing more than - ”

 

“It was a game they played, you know,” Saruul says, “Gerel and Arslan. Gerel would give him the helmet sometimes, tell him it would protect him. He would pretend to protest but he always wore it. He was never harmed when he had it, except for this time.”

 

“What do you want from me, Saruul?” Khutulun asks again. Poisonous thoughts fill her head, ideas she would never give voice. What does her sister need? A sacrifice to match the one Saruul had been forced to make? How much must Khutulun bleed for this cause?

 

“Understand that you must go and be with her,” Saruul says, “I fear that someone mistook my son for your daughter and I need you to stop this foolish crusade, if only for a moment, and be by her side. Watch over her.”

 

“All I have ever done is watch over her. I have made myself a slave to my father’s cause to secure her life and future. How dare you accuse me - ”

 

“Is that the lie you must tell yourself to continue this endless massacre?” Saruul seethes, standing up to look down upon Khutulun.

 

Khutulun sits back, to see her sister. She remembers when she was a child and Saruul had guided her through her introduction in the court of Kublai Khan. Khutulun wants to be silent but she cannot help herself.

 

“I am what you made me,” Khutulun says.

 

Saruul opens her mouth and closes it. She turns, walking idly away from Khutulun, before stopping. Khutulun looks and sees a pair of dirty boots on the floor that is now at Saruul’s feet. When her sister turns back to face her, Khutulun expects to see tears. There are none. Instead, there is a hollowness in her sister’s eyes.

 

There are no simple choices, not for people like them.

 

It is not fair for Khutulun to accuse Saruul this way. Her sister had raised her but it has always been her own decisions that had guided her.

 

“Go to your baby,” Saruul says, “Hold her close and tell her sweet things so that she knows you love her.”

 

Khutulun leaves without another word. Panic fills her when she is alone and truly able to contemplate her sister’s warning. She had left Gerel unattended and she moves quickly to the ger where her daughter sleeps.

 

The air in her own ger was suffocating with smoke from the incense and burning herbs but Khutulun did not complain. Neither did Gerel, who lay shaking in her furs, her eyes vacant and listless as she stared at the top the tent.

 

Orus had arranged everything. He had given his own gold to shamans, healers, herbalists, and whoever else he could find. Men came from all corners of the world, wearing many different robes, with many different charms, to attend to Lord Kaidu’s granddaughter. Orus visited often, both to see how Gerel was faring and to keep himself occupied. In the rare moments when he wasn’t busy, Khutulun could see her brother faltering.

 

In spite of their efforts, the girl worsened with each passing day. The wound in her chest was not deep and none of her organs were damaged. Sealing the cut with hot iron had been simple. Yet the girl’s body swelled and burned with unrelenting fever. Gerel fought to breathe under the pressure in her chest, her lungs rattling with the fluid that congested there.

 

It almost did not matter that there may have been insidious forces attempting to end her daughter’s life.

 

For three days, Gerel had babbled, incoherent. Then she began to sleep. It was not a deep, healing slumber but an endless, death-like sleep. Khutulun had not leave her daughter’s side, finding comfort in the sound of Gerel’s breathing.

 

Khutulun had called for a medicine woman as well, the same healer who had once helped Gerel survive being poisoned when all others had been useless. The woman comes, rubs a thick paste on Gerel’s wound which smells like mold, and leaves, with eyes that are silent and pessimistic. She had left the paste and instructions to put the salve on the wound every four hours.

 

Khutulun goes to the task now. She pulls away the wrappings, carefully. She knows nothing of dressing wounds. Such tasks had never interested her. Now she cannot take her eye off Gerel’s injury. There is no more foul smell or drainage from the cut. Gerel’s skin is not warm either. Yet, the girl still seems to fade before Khutulun’s very eyes.  

 

Gerel’s breathing is more labored than ever. Khutulun loses her composure. She crawls under the covers and lays close to her daughter. The girl is nearly a head taller than Khutulun and the flesh under her palms is muscled and scarred but in the dim light of the ger, her face is soft and sweet. Gerel does not look like a warrior in that moment. She looks like a child, someone needing of protection.

 

“You fought bravely,” Khutulun mutters to Gerel, who is still sleeping, “Promise me you will keep fighting. Don’t leave me like this.”

 

Gerel’s form is heavy in her arms. Her breath is barely audible and Khutulun feels Gerel’s chest shudder with each effort. Even in sleep, the girl’s face grimaces in pain.

 

Khutulun knows about the horses Gerel had given to Lord Kaidu. It had been a great number, a generous display of the only currency she had. A display for one specific purpose.

 

Her father had been displeased. He had been quiet on the matter to all but Khutulun knew better. He did not need to tell Khutulun his thoughts. She had known them without articulation and knowns them so well, she wondered if they were her own.

 

Orus had told Gerel fanciful stories when she had been small, tales which differed when it suited him. Her father was a powerful shaman who could raise the dead and cure any ailment. Her father was a great warrior prince who liberated lands and would return for her one day. If he wanted to be cruel, Orus would tell her he had bought her at the market for the price of one tin cup from a merchant with too many children.

 

Yet somehow, it seemed Gerel had pieced some semblance of the truth together. She had heard that her father had been taken as a prisoner of war. She had gone to see him and then she had given all of her wealth to have him released, kindness towards a man who had denied her very existence.

 

Khutulun could not understand this. She had absolutely no concept of how her child could do such a thing. She knew nothing of this part of Gerel’s mind.

 

“Come back to me,” Khutulun whispers into Gerel’s ear, “You are my choice, the only one I have ever truly had. I will be nothing without you.”

 

She had never said anything like this to Gerel before, Khutulun realizes.

 

Gerel’s breathing slows and for one brief moment Khutulun is certain it has stopped. She is lost. Khutulun presses her ear to Gerel’s chest, shattering at the silence.

 

“I swear to you that I will let you be free,” Khutulun chokes, “But you must come back to me.”

 

Then, as if moved by some unfortunate blessing, Gerel’s chest rises again.

 

.

.

.

 

“That song is vile,” Khutulun remarks, pulling the salt cakes off the heat.

 

Orus grunts, not even looking up from the blanket he is mending. The tune Gerel is singing from her seat outside the ger is raucous and explicit, something better suited for a tavern than a warm morning filled with chores. Khutulun makes no move to stop her.

 

“It’s her first pleasant mood in weeks. Let her be,” Orus says, speaking Khutulun’s thoughts.

 

Between the notes, the sound of Gerel’s sharpening stone on her blade cuts through the air. The snow will melt in a few weeks and they will all return to the warpath. Gerel’s smile had been so forced when she had heard this news but she would not complain. Khutulun had taught her better.

 

“She has quite a voice,” Khutulun notes.

 

“Very lovely,” Orus says. Gerel sings a line about a well-endowed man and Orus winces. “She was quite difficult to soothe at times, you know? I did what I needed to do. How was I to know she would remember my lyrics?”

 

Khutulun glances at Orus out of the corner of her eye, fighting back a smile.

 

Their meal is ready so Khutulun leans back, to linger in the moment. Orus begins to hum along with the tune. Gerel hits a high notes that is almost painful to hear and then, very abruptly, she goes silent.

 

Khutulun sits upright. Saruul’s warning rises into Khutulun’s awareness. She had not allowed herself to think or even speak of the her sister’s words for fear of sending her own daughter into a panic but she had not let the girl venture far from her.

 

Khutulun stands and rushes out of the ger, Orus on her heels. Would someone be so brazen as to make an attempt in broad daylight -

 

Gerel stands with a tall figure several steps from the ger. It has been years since she last saw him and she sees the time that has passed in the new softness of his form and the lines on his face. For so long, she had refused to let herself even spare him a thought and for a moment, she almost cannot accept what she sees.

 

They speak to one another but Khutulun cannot hear what they say. She can only see the look which Byamba gives their child.

 

Orus moves behind her but Khutulun barely notices.

 

Byamba says something to Gerel, his hand reaching for her. He stops himself and turns, retreating from their daughter as fast as he can.

 

Gerel cries out and this time, Khutulun hears what she says. “Father! Father!”

 

Byamba pauses, his shoulders stiff. Gerel grabs his arms and speaks to him again. He looks at the girl, the expression on his face clear to any observer.

 

Gerel drags Byamba back to the tent. Numb, Khutulun can barely make herself think. Her chest burns at the sight of the Khan’s son but she is filled with a feeling of something she couldn’t name. Anger? Sadness? Joy? Khutulun forces herself to stand, to breath as if the sight of her husband is not excruciating to her.

 

“Mother,” Gerel calls out. She is smiling, more carefree than Khutulun has seen her in years.

 

“Go to your uncle's ger.” Khutulun says, abrupt. Orus will be with their father, preventing him from seeing their visitor. Her daughter's smile fades and the sight makes Khutulun’s throat tight. The child doesn't understand.

 

Gerel stares at Khutulun. Briefly, Khutulun fears the girl will resist her order. Indeed, Gerel straightens as if willing herself to rebel.

 

Khutulun fixes her gaze on her daughter. Finally, Gerel wavers, turning to Byamba to say, “Promise you will not leave without saying goodbye.”

 

Byamba looks down at her, a smile in his eyes that makes Khutulun bites her lip to push back a sudden burst of sadness. He looks at their daughter with the such kind eyes. His gaze has not changed even after all these years. “I wouldn't leave.”

 

Gerel grins at him. Khutulun watches, feeling as if she is observing an intimate moment. Byamba touches Gerel’s arm as she passes. Their daughter walks away, glancing over her shoulder until she is out of sight.

 

Byamba watches her depart. Khutulun clears her throat loudly and he turns to look at her. For a brief moment, she sees affection and thinly masked melancholy followed quickly by pain. Khutulun is suddenly filled with an old aching too, one which she had not felt in many years but recognizes with ease. She shakes her head, furious at herself.

 

“Come. We will have words,” Khutulun says, turning swiftly to avoid his unfortunate look.

 

She hears him follow her into the ger. Her back is tense, so straight, it is nearly painful. She looks up towards the ceiling. Her brothers and cousins built this ger when she and Byamba were first married and the ceiling is far too low. If she were to reach up, she could touch it with ease. He had promised her that he would fix the ger when they had children.

 

The memory of the old promise fills her with anger. She can see him in her own mind without even turning. He must feel cramped. No doubt he has to bend his neck to move around the ger.

 

“What are you doing here?” Khutulun asks.

 

He does not answer her. She hears him moving towards the hearth where the embers she had been using to warm the the salt cakes are beginning to die. The flint and stone click as he ignites the embers again.

 

“What do you want?” Khutulun snaps. She turns to look at him. He is kneeling by the hearth, blowing softly on the embers before he begins to warm his hands. He is making himself at home.

 

“I heard that your father is dying,” Khutulun says. He still does not look up from the hearth and this makes her angry, “He released you, didn’t he? When you have nothing to lose, you chose me? Is that what happened? I am touched.”

 

He leans away from the fire until he tips onto his backside. Crossing his legs, he sits and watches the glowing coals. He looks so very pathetic, old, soft, and absent-minded, and she suddenly wants him gone, far away from her, never to return. The thought makes her happy. This is what she should feel.

 

Khutulun rushes at him, standing over him so that he can be looked down upon, “Get out,” He doesn’t move so shoves him and he falls back, “Get out. Go away and leave us.”

 

He doesn’t even attempt to pick himself up. His eyes are still focused on the floor, on the walls, anywhere but on her and she finds she still has much to say to him.

 

“You have brought me so much pain. I had to hear the whispers they said about me and our innocent child. I had to accept the idea that you discarded us both. I had to sacrifice the life that I should have had,” Khutulun says, “And you wouldn’t even look at me now. I was your wife.”

 

He tenses up at this statement. He looks up at her, his shoulder slumped and tired. She forces herself to stand tall, to look too proud to be associated with him. He is dressed like a pauper and she can see scars on his face and arms. Then she sees his eyes and her resolve vanishes.

 

“You have always been my wife,” Byamba says.

 

He lumbers to his feet, dusting himself off. He shifts and she can see his profile in the dying ember. He has wrinkles around his eyes from worries she had not been able to soothe away and laughter she had not been able to share. There are scars on his neck and chest from injuries she couldn't protect him from. He has grey hair born from days they had deserved to have together but been denied. Suddenly she is filled with poisonous, all consuming anger.

 

She digs her fingernails into his arm, gripping as if this will prevent him from ever leaving her again. He shudders at the feeling and opens his eyes to look at her. She sees something in his eye, a spark of understanding perhaps, and he leans into her, pulling her close and holding her so tightly she can barely breath. She feels her cheeks burning as she clings to him.

 

“I deserved to have a life with you,” Khutulun says, her jaw tight.

 

She jumps when she feels his hands on her. His hands are tentative yet firm as he begins to dig the pads of his thumbs into the muscles of her back, rubbing away tension she hadn’t realized she was carrying with strong strokes. Her eyes begin to close. A dull aches grows in her stomach.  She remembers this. She had missed this.  
  
His hands travel lower, massaging the tense muscles in her back until his touch reaches the base of her spine. Here he stops. Her eyes open and she sees that his face is much closer than she thought. They seem to share the same breath. It would be so easy, to lean forward and kiss him.  
  
He is so near, she can feel the warmth of his body. Her vision is of only him, the warmth of his dark brown eyes, the gentle tension of his jaw, and his lovely lips.

He reaches to touch her cheek and begins to lean towards her. She can feel the warmth of his lips when suddenly, she felt him take her hand, pulling the digit to press it against his chest.  
  
This awakens her from her stupor. She pulls away, sucking her breath through her teeth. He clings to her as she untangle from him but only for a moment. Then he allows her to move away.

His eyes travel across her form and she feels a unwanted joy at the sight of his fixation. She clenches her thighs, vainly trying to relieve the aching pressure between her legs.

 

“I should go,” Byamba says, his voice warm and deep.

 

He goes to get his things and she realizes he truly wishes to leave this time. She hesitates but only for a moment. Then she reaches out, pulling him close again, her heart pounding as she kisses him. She is not gentle. When she pulls away, she bites down on his lower lip, pleased when she sees his lips are bright red from her efforts.

 

She step away, daring him with her eyes to continue. He does not waste anymore time. Pressing his body against hers, he kisses her cheeks and neck and shoulders. His hands move across her form, gripping her flesh as if he cannot believe she is real. Then he begins to take off her clothes and she loses her last shred of restraint.

 

Byamba attempts to move her towards the bed but she pushes him onto the ground, straddling him. He barely seems to notice, still too involved in touching her in all the places he couldn’t touch her for years and kissing the old spots he knew she liked. Finally, he touches her between her legs where she has begun to ache in anticipation. A wave of pleasure washes over her as he gives her what she wants with his deft fingers.

 

She leans back, her hands on his knees, stabilizing herself so that she may rise up and then sink down on his fingers. He touches her in such a way that she quickly loses any and all coherent thought. All she can bring herself to care about is his slick fingers and the sensation he gives her with a simple flexion of his knuckles.

 

She hears him breathing deeply and looks down at him. He is watching her pleasuring herself, his arousal pressed against her thigh. She finds herself whispering, “Please.”

 

He stops, pulling away his hand, his eyebrows high on his face. “Please?”

 

Khutulun slaps him, partly for denying her and partly because it feel good to be playful again. “Attend to your task idiot.”

 

He grins as she pushes away his clothing until she can hold him in her hand, her hands enthusiastic until he pushes her away. She makes an eager noise in the back of her throat as he spread her legs and pulls her on top of him, smearing her wetness with one hand as he used his other digit to align himself with her. He presses past the tight ring of flesh and the delicious stretch makes her eyelids flutter as the pleasure ripples up her spine .

 

It has been many years and she is grateful to find that he is not an impulsive youth who would thrust completely into her without a thought. He holds her hip tightly with one hand while the other works against the hard bundle at the top of her folds, moving in shallow thrusts against the hidden parts inside of her which make her shudder under his fingertips.

 

She begins to relax around him and out the corner of her eye, she can see his face as she sinks onto him. His eyes are shut and his lips quiver as if he says a silent prayer.

 

They move slowly at first. His body rise up to meet her as she lowers down on him, revolving her hips against him, before moving up again. They savor the slowly building tension their painfully slow movements bring to both of them. Khutulun arches her back, reveling in the sound Byamba makes as she tenses around him, dragging him against the places on her body which bring her the most pleasure.

 

Her eyes open when he pulls away from her hip to take her hand again. He laces their fingers together and holds their clasped hands close to his chest. She smiles, squeezes the hand before releasing her hold on him and guiding his hand to cup her breast.

 

His thrusts become sharper, more purposeful. She finds herself shaking at his attention, his name broken syllables on her lips. She cannot help herself. His every thrusts makes her shudder with pleasure. She tilts her head back, her mouth open but she cannot even form a sound. There is nothing but Byamba and the intense sensation he is creating between her thighs.

 

No one has ever known her like him. She had forgotten that but was happy to be reminded.

 

Their movements become quicker, more intent on their shared goal until the attention of his hand on the swollen spot between her legs and his enthusiastic thrusts become too much and she climaxes, ecstasy moves across her in waves. His seed trickles down her thigh as she lifts herself off of him to kiss his neck and lay next to him.

 

Neither of them speak. Finally Khutulun says, “See? Who can give you that but me?”

 

He chuckles and she savors the sight, too happy to be bothered by more complex things.  

 

He stops suddenly and she briefly fears the familiar look of regret would form on his face. Instead he lays her down on the ground and has her again, deeper and with more enthusiasm as if he were finally rid of his old demons. She clings to him, her nails deep in his skin and her legs wrapped around him, her pleasure easily mounting again at his passionate performance.

 

She awakens hours later. Moonlight streams down from the opening in the roof. She turns and finds that Byamba is lying nearby, awake and watching her. She shudders under his gaze, suddenly feeling bare and vulnerable. He reaches out to touch her but she slaps his hand away.

 

“You threw me away like I were nothing to you.”  

 

He opens his mouth and then quickly closes it. If she did not know better, she would think he was conflicted. He finally says, “I can give you no excuse you will deem acceptable.”

 

"She was your child. You made her seem worthless, like something that needed to be discarded."

 

“I thought of you,” Byamba says.

 

Khutulun grips her elbows, stands and begins to pace the length of her ger. She doesn’t want to hear any of this. She wants anger, resentment, something despicable and revolting, something she can refuse to accept.

 

There is none of this in Byamba’s voice. There is pain, frustration, and something softer, but no anger. It fills her with a gentle warmth that both makes her tremble and grind her teeth with frustration.

  
“I tried not to,” Byamba says, “but I could not stop myself.”

 

“Give me something,” Khutulun says, “Let me at least understand what happened between us.”

 

“When my father discovered that you carried my child, he saw only a threat to his empire. My servitude was all that I have even been able to give my father so I gave him my life in the hopes he would not takes yours and hers,” Byamba says.

 

“Her name was my name. I protect it and I always have,” Khutulun says.

 

“I learned differently,” Byamba says, “I have hated myself ever since but it hardly seems enough penance.”

 

Khutulun feels a tightness in her throat. He is being truthful and she knows it and she wants only to give him what he gave her. “I gave you no choice. I knew how loyal you were to your father. I simply wished I could make you choose me instead of him.”

 

She pushes him away again and begins to move. To both her horror and joy, he rises and moves towards her, keeping a distance between them but still remaining close. Her stomach aches at the sight.

 

"You and her are all I have ever wanted, yet in my mother's eyes, you would have been my greatest shame," Byamba says, "I find, however, that I could never accept such sentiment."

 

“Do you know how much I loved you? Do you know how much you meant to me? You were the only person I have ever thought truly knew me,” Khutulun says.

 

“I did know,” Byamba says.

 

“Then tell me,” Khutulun says.

 

“Tell you what?” Byamba asks.

 

“No,” Khutulun says, “I want to know why you did not wait for me that day. Didn’t you know my father and I would have given you a choice? Why didn’t you even try to take that choice?”

 

Byamba sighs and goes to sit down. She watches his hands as they massage his knees. His face grimaces as he works. “I cannot even remember. Marco came for me. I held off as long as I could but I feared what my father would do if I did not arrive promptly. I did what I thought was best.”

 

“If you had waited,” Khutulun says, “everything would have been so different.”

 

“That is in the past,” Byamba says.

 

“I knew,” Khutulun adds, “I knew I was pregnant and I knew my father would wage war with me as his heir. I waited to tell you because I wanted to be certain of our fate before I presented you with what our future might become. Would you have left me if you knew?”

 

He does not respond her but she has her answer. It is all meaningless. They had both taken their punishment.

 

.

.

.

 

“It’s finished, uncle,” Gerel says. She tries to reach to remove the meat from the fire but Orus slaps her hand away.

“It is not finished,” Orus says, “I will know when it is finished.”

“It is an excellent cut and you’re ruining it,” Gerel says, stomping her foot.

“I am your uncle and you have to listen to me,” Orus snaps. A thick plume of smoke begins to rise from the chunk of lamb but he holds his breath and presses the meat against the burning coals.

“May we join you?” Khutulun asks. She feels Byamba touch the small of her back and Khutulun smiles up at him. His eyes twinkle back at her. Her brother has not changed much in the many years since he and Byamba were drunken fool enjoying the last few days of Byamba’s bachelorhood.

 

Orus glances up at them and grunts. Gerel sees her father’s hand on Khutulun and bites her lip to hide a smile.

“Tell your daughter she had to respect me,” Orus says.

“Be kind to your old uncle,” Khutulun says, shoving Orus as she passes him to sit next to her daughter. When Orus has turned back to his task, Khutulun leans close to Gerel and says, “He is burning it.”

“I heard that!” Orus says, “I was a war hero.”

Khutulun nudges Gerel to share a conspiratorial smile but she cannot get the girl’s attention. Byamba has taken a seat next to Gerel as well and the girl’s attention to on her father and no other.

 

Byamba smiles down at her, “Are you always so passionate about food? What do you like to eat?”

 

“Everything,” Orus scoffs, “She could easily eat a horse and still beg for more.”

 

“I like sweets,” Gerel says, ignoring her uncle, “Do you?”

 

“I am the same. My mother used to make me a sweet from her homeland. It was simply fried dough drenched in syrup but I still dream of it. Perhaps I can make it for you,” Byamba says.

 

“I would like that,” Gerel says. She turns to Khutulun and grins but the expression is sad as she adds, “We are very much alike, aren’t we mother?”

 

Khutulun nods. She had always seen Byamba in their daughter.

 

Orus pulls the meat off the fire and cuts into it to reveal bright pink, uncooked meat under the thick layer of char. Gerel opens her mouth but Orus holds up a hand. “Do not speak. I will make nermel.”

 

Byamba stands, “I will help.”

 

“Very good. Better you than me,” Orus says. He turns his attention to Gerel and adds, “He’s quite a cook as I recall and even if he is no longer skilled at such things, I am glad to have another be bothered by you, pest.”

 

“Really?” Gerel says.

 

“It’s not hard. Come. I’ll show you,” Byamba says.

 

“The mare milk is inside. Let Gerel show you. Make sure you criticize his technique, pest,” Orus calls out. Gerel does not respond. She follows Byamba, stepping on his heels in her enthusiasm.

 

“So,” Orus asks, biting into the lamb, grimacing at the terrible texture and taste of ash. He throws the meat at a passing dog who sniffs it and leaves without taking a bite. “What have you two been doing?”

 

He punches his right fist into his left hand and Khutulun makes a point of kicking him as hard as she can.

 

Out of the corner of her eye, Khutulun sees two people approaching. She steps around Orus and goes to greet her father and older brother.

 

“We heard you had a visitor,” Chabar says. He speaks much too loudly and Khutulun notices people turning to listen to him.

 

“I do,” Khutulun says.

 

“She smells used,” Chabar says, leaning toward their father who watches her with empty eyes.

 

“Enough Chabar,” Lord Kaidu says, “There is something we must discuss in private. Where is Gerel?”

 

“Inside,” Khutulun says. She puts her hand on her father’s arm and leads him into Orus’ ger. Under her palm, her father’s arm is tense. When Lord Kaidu reaches out and pushes off her hand, a wave of panic runs over her. Orus sees them approach and tries to catch Khutulun’s eye but she stubbornly doesn’t look at him.

 

In the dark ger, Gerel is taking a sip of nermel. A strange look spread across her face. Her mouth twists and her brow drops. She clears her throat and said, "Is it," she pauses until Byamba nodded in encouragement, "Is it supposed to taste this way? It's good but shouldn't it be more bitter?"

 

Byamba chuckles, “It’s only bitter when you burn it.”

 

Gerel smiles until she hears her father, uncle, and mother enter the ger. She puts down the bowl in her hand and bows. Khutulun cannot help but note that she moves in front of Byamba as if she thinks she can hide him from sight.

“We need the ger,” Khutulun says, “Go sit with your uncle outside, Gerel.”

 

“No,” Kaidu says. “My questions are for her.”

 

Gerel tenses at her grandfather’s tone and Khutulun moves to put a hand on her shoulder, barely able to tolerate the emptiness of Lord Kaidu’s voice as he talks to his favorite granddaughter with such dismissiveness.

 

“Ask me your questions grandfather,” Gerel says.

 

“Your arrows,” Kaidu says, “do they have a strip of black paint on them?”

 

“Yes,” Gerel says, “I make them myself. Why do you ask?”

 

“In your last battle, did you aim for a man with golden armor?” Chabar asks.

 

“Chabar,” Kaidu snaps, “I will lead this inquisition.”

 

Khutulun realizes what her father is asking and she moves to stand between Kaidu and Gerel. He would never strike a child but her father is a leader and no amount of love can prevent him from doing what he must for his kingdom. Khutulun knows that well.

 

“My daughter has done nothing but support your endeavours,” Khutulun says, “I have done nothing but support your endeavours. I gave you my life. My daughter would never do what you accuse her of doing.”

 

“I ask her, not you,” Kaidu says. His eyes are on Khutulun as he asks, “Did you aim for a man with golden armor, Gerel?”

 

“I was ordered to,” Gerel says, her voice fragile and soft.

 

“She killed the khan’s son, Prince Jingim,” Chabar says, “We are not the only ones who know of this, father. What will we do?”

 

Something flashes across Chabar’s eyes, something raw and despicable. Khutulun cannot name it but she knows it well. It is something that drives men to do evil things like attacking a child to gain favor and power for themselves.  

 

“No, grandfather, please,” Gerel says, pushing Khutulun out of the way so that she may look Lord Kaidu in the eye. “I do everything I do for you. I am your servant. I acted as I was ordered to act.”

 

“She committed an act which violates one of our most sacred laws,” Chabar says.

 

“Lord Kaidu, if you let me, I will give my life to you as my mother has. I will be your ally. Tell me what I must do to make you forgive me for this horrible act and I will see that it is done,” Gerel says. She drops to her knees, her eyes shiny with tears.

 

Khutulun cannot speak. She has seen this scene before her. She knows Gerel’s shame and she knows from the look in her father’s eye that he is moved.

 

Kaidu moves to help Gerel to her feet. He brushes away her tears as he says, “You mean more to me than any one act. I will have you at my side. You will become a symbol and no one will remember this accusation when they see that you are a shining example of the strength of our house.”

 

“No one will not forget this,” Chabar says, “She will carry this sin for the rest of her days.”

 

“She is my granddaughter,” Lord Kaidu says, “She will carry our name and fight for our empire. That is what people will remember.”

 

Khutulun looks at Byamba out of the corner of her eye. His eyes are on the ground. He knows this scene well too.

 

.

.

.

 

“I want you to take her and go far away from this place, somewhere no one can find you,” Khutulun says. “I want her to have a long and happy life.”

 

Byamba pauses, staring at her from his place by the fire. Then he stands, pulls her to her feet and takes her in his arms. Her eyes burns but she does not cry. She knew what she had to do and perhaps she had always known she would one day be forced to do this. She stays in Byamba’s arms, her heart aching. It had been too long and it was not enough but for now, she had him by her side and she would not waste the moment worrying about a time when it would be gone again.

 

“I will join you. This war will end and when it does, you and I will lives our days together as we were always meant to,” Khutulun says.

 

It sounds like a lie and they both hear it.

 

She pulls him onto her bed. This time, they are not frantic and passionate. They both linger, their touch on one another slow and methodical as if they could memorize the moment.

 

Khutulun awakes later, alone in her bed. It is quiet in the ger but she sees her daughter in the shadows, putting things into a bag. Khutulun had feared Gerel would not go, that she would stay out of some sense of duty but her fears were unfounded.

 

Gerel wants this.

 

Khutulun does not allow herself to think of what she had forced the child to endure for her own gain. She imagine Gerel, free and happy as Khutulun had once imagined herself. Khutulun pretend to sleep and just before she leaves, Gerel places a kiss on her mother’s cheek.

 

This time, Khutulun is the one who awakens in the morning alone, left behind to deal with another’s decision.

 

.

.

.

 

It takes five years but she keeps her word.

 

It is long enough for the scandal to be forgotten. People stop whispering and they forget the girl and her father who disappeared into the night. Rumors die. No one stays interested in the mother who was left behind.

 

She remains by her father’s side because that is what she promised him she would do and because she wants and needs to finish what she started. She is never made her father’s heir but she does not mind.

 

They come close to creating the world they had always wanted but they fall short in the end. It is not enough. It is not a lack of effort or a failure but simply fate in the end. Her father dies, his vision unrealized, and she slips into obscurity.

 

Kublai dies, sick and alone. She hears that Polo lives in the palace with the blue princess and that they are all but married to one another and that her old friend grows old but is still a fool and the blue princess smiles whenever he is near her but Khutulun does not pay much attention to rumors. Jingim’s son takes the throne and there is peace.

 

One day, on a morning that is cold and unremarkable, she leaves. She says her goodbyes and no one begs her to stay. Her sisters are surrounded by grandchildren and Orus is their happy uncle, free to do whatever he wishes with his days. They will miss her but they will not be empty at her loss. All is well.

 

Khutulun goes to the city which Byamba told her of just before her left. She walks through the streets unrecognized. They wait for her, in the home they built, and finally, she has her choice.

 

They will say her life ended when she leaves everything behind but she knows better. The three of them have a long and happy life together.


End file.
